


Lost and Found

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drapple (Harry Potter), F/M, Fairy Tale Parody, Fairy Tale Retellings, Muggle Studies, Sharing a Bed, Virgin Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 07:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20467166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: Paired off and trapped in a ridiculous assignment, Hermione Granger is at the mercy of Draco Malfoy's sense of heroics and chivalry.  She might be in for a long wait.  Then again, every ferret has his day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Harry Potter, The Girl Who Was Hidden Underground, or the technical knowledge to post images on AO3. Welcome to my entry into Mourning Madam's Fairy Tale Fest! Thank you for being here!

"She's lost her bloody mind," Ron Weasley whispers into Hermione's ear, none too quiet in her opinion. She shushes him with vigor and turns her attention back to their professor of Muggle Studies. Her friend never having been entirely respectful to their instructors, Hermione is hardly surprised by Ron's rude behavior. She, on the other hand, is very interested to hear how one has a "hands on" experience with Muggle history.

The woman, a forty-something half-blood from somewhere near Vancouver, is giving them the details of their next assignment.

"Muggles have been telling stories involving magic for centuries, both before and after the Statute of Secrecy was put into place, perhaps with even more passion now that they believe it to be safely the stuff of fantasy. And so, our next project will involve an in depth study of Muggle fairy tales and their perception of magic."

Hermione hears a scoff across the corridor. She glances through the crowd, the entirety of returning eighth years huddled around their professor in one of the freshly rebuilt hallways. Considering a battle took place here just a few months ago, Hogwarts is looking pretty solid.

The scoff, she discovers, seems to have originated from a cluster of students with green ties and sour faces. Slytherin is a little thin on the ground this year. Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bulstrode, and, the scoffiest of scoffers, Draco Malfoy, are the only eighth year Slytherin students who have returned to finish their final year.

Hermione narrows her eyes, offended by Malfoy's presence as much as his attitude. How dare he scoff at Muggle creations! She fought a war for the right for her own culture to be treated equal and she _won_, thank you very much. He catches her looking and almost seems surprised by her expression. She must look extra cross.

He turns away, jaw set in anger or anxiety. He always seems a little something along those lines: irritated and stressed and pretty much unpleasant. Hermione wouldn't consider herself a petty person, but she sometimes takes just a little pleasure that the poor, little rich boy has been knocked down a peg.

She allows herself a private and smug grin while she turns back to hear the rest of the introduction.

"If anyone has any questions before we begin? No? Well then, let's head this way and get you paired."

A general groan sounds through the crowd like a wave. In general, no one likes working in pairs. Professor Jayne's grouped projects have consisted of such delights as cooking together the Muggle way (Ron set Hermione's apron on fire), cleaning without magic (Harry managed to catch the skirt of her uniform in a vacuum), and employment roleplaying (Hermione fired Theo Nott for sexual misconduct within roughly three minutes of the start of the exercise).

She just can't imagine what this will entail.

Beginning to lead the group down the hallway, Jayne gestures ahead. "As you can see, we are nearing the renowned Room of Requirement."

Hermione can pretty much feel her face drain of colour. Surely, they will not be expected to utilize the Room... Does it even _work_? Her breath comes shorter, and she is grateful when she feels a hand lightly touch the small of her back, offering and taking comfort in kind.

He may have been a shite boyfriend, but sometimes, Ron surprises her. She glances over her shoulder and gives her 'ex' a nod of solidarity and thanks.

"For centuries a well-kept secret, few know that originally the Room was Rowena Ravenclaw's personal collections suite. It was only over time, years after Ravenclaw left the school, that the Room of Hidden Things become the mountains of brick-a-brack it was known for at the time of its destruction."

Hermione chances a quick look, merely a glance, toward the Slytherin cabal. Malfoy looks pained. She isn't so heartless not to understand that he likely feels the loss of his minion-

_Friend_.

He lost his friend.

It's a constant battle, trying not to think the nasty, bitter things that come first to mind. Hermione is on the fifth step of a dozen that are meant to enhance compassion and inner piece. She is working on 'mindfulness' with zeal.

She shakes her head and is back on task. The twelfth and final step, loving your enemy, is a long way off. No reason to rush through.

"Well then, time to pair up!" Jayne claps her hands together with barely concealed excitement that no one seems to share. She has no parchment, her wand is stowed away, and so her pairings seem to be random and arbitrary. Hermione doesn't particularly care for thoughtless, "off the cuff" planning.

"Let's see…. Let's have Potter with Nott, Abbott with Thomas, Weasley with…" A pause, and then, "Bulstrode…"

The room at large sucks in a breath, most everyone seeming to know Ron Weasley is the last student to put with a Slytherin, but the professor seems to neither notice nor care. She continues on, pairing across house lines, until finally Hermione feels like she's the only one left. She glances around and sees students grouping up, edging closer to their partners. Even Ron is trudging slowly toward Bulstrode. For a rather sturdy built witch, hardly the shy violet type, she looks quite nervous at his approach. She seems to be looking for strength when a pale hand gives her a reassuring pat on the back.

A pale hand belonging to a seemingly unpaired Malfoy.

Hermione closes her eyes and swallows just as their professor finishes, "And Miss Granger with… ah, yes. Mister Malfoy. Perfect."

Hermione thinks _Perfect_ is a terribly inappropriate conclusion to reach.

* * *

Of course. Of fucking _course_ it would be Granger. Of all the witches, or wizards for that matter. At this point in his life, Draco thinks maybe Potter would be preferable to being paired with Hermione bleeding Granger.

It's not even that he hates her. There's no love lost between them, that's for sure, but Draco hasn't had the energy to hate anyone in a long time. Except maybe Tom Marvolo Riddle. _That_ guy was a fucking tosser.

No, it's more that she seems so... judgy. She's always been a little judgmental, since the day he met the girl. Running around a train, looking for a toad, and lifting her nose at anyone who dare think there is anything else on earth she should be doing instead. But now? Merlin save him, she's a bleeding hero. The poster girl for all that is light and good and Muggles being vindicated.

And what is he in comparison? A villian? A failure? At the very least, Draco knows he is a snotty little shite with Daddy Issues. He'd never admit it, but that doesn't mean he can honestly deny it.

Luckily, honesty is overrated.

All of that in mind, her general self-righteous demeanor has become something Draco very much doesn't enjoy dealing with. The little swot is now coming from the perspective of an entire wizarding war proving her correct. If he thought she had high regard for her own brain before, now she's downright impossible.

Easy on the eyes, of course, but impossible.

He pulls a blank face and watches Granger shuffle his direction. She takes up a position near the Weasel, who seems equally unsure about standing too close to Millie. Poor girl. No one but Draco knows she's had a crush on Weasley the Wanker for nearly five years. The distaste oozing off the redhead for all things Slytherin house is likely breaking her rather soft heart. Millie may look tough, standing nearly six feet with solid limbs and a moderately full build, but in actuality, she's delicate and feminine in the ways of the heart. She's almost as tall as the gangly Weasley beside her, yet she seems to be making herself look small, like he might not notice she's there.

Draco might have to have a little _Come to Salazar_ talk with the wizard later. He'd best be nice, is all Draco can say.

"All matched up and ready? On to the assignment!" The professor paces back and forth in front of the door, making Draco remember some things from sixth year he would really rather not.

Professor Jayne opens the door with a flourish and gestures toward the opening. Inside, Draco can see the Room looks almost like the corridor they are standing within. Stone floors and walls with tapestries tossing color onto the otherwise grey canvas, it looks like the castle interior continued within. Is the Room broken? Is this what it looks like when it doesn't project anything?

"Mister Potter? Let's have you and Mister Nott take the first round. You will be acting out roles in a muggle story called Jack and the Beanstalk. The Room will decide who will be portraying which characters. Once you've completed your story, I'll be looking for 30 inches of parchment on the use of magic in the tale and what Muggles might take from a story that is otherwise impossible for them to believe in. Good luck!"

Potter gives a worried glance toward Granger as he follows Nott into the room. Draco has a feeling the story title is not unknown to him and has a twinge of trepidation slither up his spine at the look returned on Granger's face. What kind of experiment is this?

The door closes behind the two wizards, the scene within seeming to morph into a picturesque countryside, and Professor Jayne claps her hands together. "Lovely. Who's next?"

Next, as it turns out, is Hannah Abbott and Dean Thomas. The professor sends them on their way into what looks like a small village, thatch roofed houses dotting the landscape, and tells them their story is called The Snow-Queen.

Sounds like a poncy little tale if you ask Draco.

Students continue to pair off, set by set, two by two. Millie and her buffoon of a partner are given something called Beauty and the Beast, and Draco would swear Weasley's body had started to change as the door closed in that uncomfortable way of Polyjuice or an Animagus transformation. He snickers to himself until Granger sends him a glare.

"And then there were two," Jayne comments, looking them over. "For you two, best in my class, I have a more obscure story for you to enjoy. It's a German tale called The Princess Who Was Hidden Underground." She shoos them with quick motions of her hands. "Go on then. I can't wait to read your accounts!"

Draco looks down at Granger to find her staring back. There is a nervousness about her than seems completely out of character for the typically bold and cocksure Gryffindor. He almost makes a comment, starts to open his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it and shakes his head. He doesn't really know what he would say, and he'll probably end up hexed for his trouble.

Without looking back, he steps through the door into another world. The ground beneath his feet is hard-packed earth, dry and rocky with brittle grass in clumps here and there. He's on a road of sorts, though it does not look well-maintained. Draco wrinkles his nose, very much not liking the downtrodden atmosphere of their story.

"Well, Granger, let's find out what drivel we are to be subjected to-"

He stops short when he turns around and finds only an expanse of dry earth, cottages in the distance, and no Granger to be found. The door from the Room is gone, leaving Draco feeling momentarily lost and slightly panicked. He takes a few breaths and remembers he's still in the castle, still at Hogwarts.

Taking stock of his surroundings a bit more closely, he notices people in the distance as well. In all great stories, some hapless git is mucking about on some asinine quest. Draco figures he might as well find out what he's supposed to be doing and makes his way down the road to a small crowd in what must pass for a town.

* * *

Hermione watches Draco saunter forward into the room and glances back toward the entrance one last time. The professor gives her a wink and then closes the door. It fades immediately into what looks like bricks of silver, bleeding into a large brick wall that seems to take up her whole vision. She turns back to Draco to find that he is gone as well, as is the countryside scene. Instead, Hermione is in a large room, all silver brick walls with no windows or doors. Lavish furniture with cushions of the deepest plum, ornate rugs in bold prints, and gilded fixtures glinting in the low light surrounds her. There are bowls with lush fruits, carafes of clear water… It is a beautiful room in truth, but Hermione focuses across to a large chaise lounge and a man draped across it, three woman laying around him.

Hermione's jaw drops. "_Dad?_"

The man, who can't _possibly_ be Frank Granger, smiles. "My daughter, come and sit on my knee."

The women, it appears on closer study, are Padma Patil, Lavender Brown, and Cho Chang. But Hermione knows for a fact that Lavender Brown is dead. And Padma Patil just entered her own Cinderella nightmare with that nasty Zacharias Smith. Cho Chang… Well, Hermione isn't really sure what happened to her, but _this_ is not her.

So the room has popped real people into the supporting rolls. How absolutely jarring. A grotesque Oz of the supporting cast in Hermione's life…

And she is _not_ sitting on this man's knee. He's fucking creepy, thanks.

Clearing her throat, she tries to start a conversation. Honestly, Hermione has never read this fairy tale and has no idea what it's about. Probably some asinine quest she needs to go on. Best get to it.

"Dad, it's good to see you. Are we…" She searches her mind, trying to find a question to lead him forward. "Any plans today? Are we... going anywhere?"

The man laughs at her. Not _with_ her, either; _at_ her. He sounds like an arse.

"My flower, of course not. I will make my way back to the castle proper shortly, but you will remain here, my beautiful turtledove, until a proper and worthy prince can be found. I've only come to visit you and your," he glances around him, lecherous eyes on the three young witches, "very accommodating ladies in waiting."

Oh, gross.

She continues to smile, though her lip tries to curl in disgust. "Right. Of course. And how long have I been living down here again? Awaiting my… worthy suitor?"

He thinks for a moment, though he seems distracted by this fake Padma Patil's breasts pushed against his arms, cleavage nearly spilling over her tight blue top. "I suppose it's been some time." He chuckles, like imprisoning his daughter is just a bit of a lark. "I guess it's been almost seven years now. Time does fly. Why you and your," another sweep of his gaze across the ladies, "_attendants_ were hardly more than girls when we first built the room. My, my how you've all grown." Fake Lavender giggles like a slutty little loon.

This is the most disgusting thing Hermione has ever seen. The Room could have at least used someone other than her actual father for this. Her face scrunches.

Rising somewhat reluctantly, the king kisses the hand of each lady then approaches his daughter, hands outstretched. When he reaches her, he places a hand on each of her shoulders and pulls her close to brush a kiss against each of her cheeks. "You are the most precious thing in all the world, my daughter. I vow that no one will take you from me who is any less than perfection."

Hermione plasters a smile back on her face on nods.

First, how presumptuous, how misogynistic, that he thinks he has a right to lock her away like a bit of treasure.

Second, he's waiting for someone perfect? Guessing who the lead romantic role is in this little story, she can't imagine _that_ is in the cards. Downright laughable, in fact.

Her faux father leaves after that, and Hermione is alone with three of her least favorite people in the world. Granted, Lavender isn't actually in the world anymore, Merlin rest her soul, but the point remains…

What follows is what feels like a very tedious few days of eating fruit and listening to the women giggle and watching her father subtly paw at them when he visits. Hermione disappears behind a folding screen to what is the closest thing to privacy she has. A canopied bed with far too many pillows seems to be her only respite. She asks her father for parchment and ink and makes herself busy by beginning her assignment for the class. There isn't much to say yet, magic not really being a part of the story up to this point, but she takes meticulous notes while she waits.

And where the hell is Draco Malfoy? She's sure he's just having a swell time, chatting up wenches and drowning himself in ale. Typical male in a medieval fantasy.

He'll rue the day he made her wait this long.

The feather quill jabs through the parchment in her irritation.

* * *

Draco Malfoy is _not_ having a good time.

What he discovered by engaging in conversation and listening at doors, is that the king of this sad little village has a daughter with what must be a twat made out of gold, and every man from fifteen to fifty is trying to find her to wed and bed.

So, of course, that must be Granger. What a joke, thrusting that swotty little prig into the role of a princess. Draco might admit she's not bad to look at, but a gilded princess she is not.

Which, _of course_, that means Draco is going to be expected to find the stupid witch before this can end. But apparently, that's bleeding impossible, and if you fail, you literally LOSE YOUR FUCKING HEAD.

And this place… ugh. Draco hates it here. The witches are handsy and crude and keep putting their grubby little fingers on his person.

"Well, what 'ave we 'ere? Fancy wee lad, ain'tcha? Come let ol' Tillie set you to rights."

He shudders at the thought. That particular case… he's still not entirely sure if she was, one, a prostitute, two, selling something more innocuous than her body, or, three, if she wanted to murder him.

There is exactly one inn-slash-pub-slash-restaurant in the wretched setting, and it's all in one dirty old building at the edge of town. So, guess where Draco gets to sleep and drink and eat?

Got it in one. Draco congratulates you on your powers of deduction.

The ale, in case anyone is curious, tastes like dirt, and Draco is only drinking it because it's cleaner than the water. The food?

Draco doesn't like to think about the food. He's not sure what it was before it was cooked but is fairly certain he doesn't want to know.

The barmaid gives him yet another wink across the room, and he squeezes his eyes closed, praying to Salazar for strength. Is she amorous or does she have a condition? As often as her eye twitches like that, he's not entirely sure.

Not to mention, she looks a bit like that Molly Weasley. He's only seen her from afar and never really studied her, but it's too eerie to be a coincidence.

When a new face enters, Draco perks up. Surely this will be a plot progression, right? The man has a distinct look of 'foreign' about him. His dress isn't like anyone else's in town and he looks… _cleaner_ than most. Not to mention, he appears to wear the face of Gilderoy Lockhart.

The Room seems to have a sense of humour as to the players it puts into position.

"Mind you if I share your table, sir?"

At least the tosser is polite.

And knows proper English.

Draco nods toward the empty seat across from him and waits for the man to settle in. He gestures to the Weasley-wench, and she promptly brings a tankard of the same disgusting wheat ale Draco is choking down. She winks _at least_ twice during the brief exchange.

An affliction, surely. Maybe she's possessed…

"I appreciate the company," the Lockhart doppelganger tells him. "Travelling is lonely business with only pelts for company."

"Pelts?

"Skins. Animal pelts, my dear boy. Though I began a simple herdsman, I've used my wits to pursue a more lucrative path."

"Ah," he replies, and doesn't really know what else to say. Why would someone walk around with dead animal bits? And he's _proud_ of this?

"I've had this thought," the man says, and Draco feels a tingle down his back. Here it is, he's pretty certain: The plot point. "This quest the King has proposed… They say this princess can never be found. All the finest adventurers failed and died. Some say," he says, leaning in for dramatic effect, "she's just a myth."

Draco snorts. If any of these adventurers spent five minutes alone with the harpy, they'd think myth.

"It seems a young man would need to be clever to find a princess like this. A cunning plan is what you'd cheerly need."

Draco lays his cheek on his hand, resigned, and deadpans, "Do tell."

The man leans even further in, as if Draco had been enthusiastic. He supposes the characters are following a script.

His voice lowers, secrecy on the menu when hatching a brilliant conspiracy. "For instance, if I were to disguise a young man such as yourself as a creature of such compelling beauty, the King would be tempted… nay, _obligated_… to bring you before his daughter. In a disguised form, you would be able to know his path, memorize the way to the young maiden, and then return to her as a man."

Draco frowns. This story is far more stupid than he'd feared. "If you take me as a… a pet… how will I escape from wherever he keeps her?"

Lockhart leans back, that shit-eating grin Draco remembers from second year curled across his face. "Well, because I will explain to the King the animal is only to be loaned, of course. I will return in three days time to collect my property, and he will release you to me."

Scowling now, Draco shakes his head. "Because kings notoriously do exactly as they are told and never take anything by force." If this is one of those tragic tales, they are all losing their heads.

As if Draco had not spoken, the buffoon claps his hands together in what seems like delight. "It's settled then! Oh, what a story we will have to tell. And when you are prince, you may shower me in jewels befitting your gratitude."

Draco rolls his eyes and sarcastically agrees, "Yes, I will grant you all the jewels that properly show the gratitude I will surely have upon meeting _Princess Granger._"

"Let us not waste a moment. Come! I will show you the perfect disguise so you might find your lady love!"

Draco follows, not much liking where he's headed, but eager for this ridiculous fantasy to come to an end.

Molly Weasley pinches his bum on the way past.


	2. Chapter 2

In her underground prison, Hermione is losing her ever-loving mind.

Her parchment is now at least seventy inches, and it says absolutely nothing. She's a smart student; she knows what it is to pad an essay. This entire piece of rubbish is nothing _but_ padding.

The room contains a small collection of books, but they are the worst sort of romantic drivel, and she has less than no interest in reading them.

Currently, she has taken to tossing the pit of an apricot into the air whilst laying on her back and counting the number of times she can catch it before it fumbles through her fingers. She made it up to one hundred and seven when Cho Chang sneezed and mucked up her concentration.

She's come to the conclusion that Professor Jayne is trying to torture them. Perhaps she is a sleeper agent of the former Lord Voldemort? The more questions become, what is the nature of their experience in the room? Is time passing for them in the real world? Or is time merely a construct here in the room and not really moving as she perceives? After all, time is only a concept of man to track its own mortality. Is magic ruled by the same laws and restrictions? Is the Room a pocket outside of space and time?

Hermione is growing very philosophical. It's at least as distracting as catching a fucking seed a hundred times.

She hears the bricks of one wall begin to slide apart, reminiscent of the magic in Diagon and the literal only thing she's been able to write about that pertains to her class, and knows her father has come to call. He visits generally once a day, praising her for her beauty and the blessing she represents, and being basically a chauvinistic arse. His attentions to her handmaidens have not waned. If anything, they may have increased. She half expects to wake to an orgy one day.

Hermione also expects a lot of therapy is in her future.

Today when he enters however, he is not alone. Hermione gawks at Draco Malfoy looking particularly put out, a lamb's fleece draped over his shoulders that looks like it has been doused in metallic gold spray paint. The front legs are tied under his chin, and the head of the lamb lays down over his forehead, not quite hiding the very foul look on his face.

If she were not so entirely fed up with the entire situation, she would admit it's one of the most hilarious things she's ever seen.

"Daughter! I have such a wonderful surprise for you!"

Hermione thinks she has seen everything when Gilderoy Lockhart follows in after the 'lamb'. He has been blindfolded and cotton stuffed in his ears. A rope tied around Malfoy's neck leads him along.

She manages to hold back a snicker and inquires, "What is it, Father?"

"This wonderful merchant has presented us this golden lamb. Though it is not truly a gift, he has been generous and will allow you to enjoy the company of the beast for three days." Her father waggles his finger at her, a mocking smile on his face as he pretends to chastise. "Do not allow yourself to become too attached, dear heart. For the lamb is not mine to give no matter how you might plead."

No one says anything for a long time until, finally, Draco clears his throat loudly. He gives her a nod as if to cue her into action.

Padma whispers somewhere to her left, "Oh, isn't it darling when it bleats like that?"

Hermione breathes deep and finally says, "Oh, Father, thank you for bringing me this lovely animal." Her words are wooden and scripted, and she knows she sounds as convincing as a primary school play. Her acting ability does not seem to affect the progression of the story. "How generous of this kind merchant to allow me to keep him for a time."

Rather than the King, Lockhart's booming and dramatic voice fills her chamber. Apparently the cotton isn't entirely effective to shield the conversation, but makes him yell as if only a bit deaf. "Of course, most beloved princess! For days thrice, you are welcome to this magical creature of gilded fleece! I shall return for it at sunset on the third day and hope only for your enjoyment as payment!"

Hermione looks back at her father and gives him a simpering smile. It turns her stomach a little, but no more than watching him graze Cho Chang's thigh with his hand as he leaves the room.

Once the chamber is closed, bricks back into place, Malfoy throws the pelt off his back with a groan of frustration and relief.

"FINALLY. Do you have any idea what I've been dealing with?!"

Hermione gapes at him. Is he accusing her of this? As if she had any hand in the story, the assignment, or his role therein?

"The hell, Malfoy?! What about what _I've_ been dealing with!? I'm trapped in a bloody crypt with the three most obnoxious witches to grace the halls of Hogwarts in a millennium!"

Draco looks over to the handmaidens as if he had hardly noticed them. Lavender is twirling a blond lock around her finger and titters out, "What's a millennium?"

Hermione resolutely ignores her. She does a lot of that.

Shaking himself, Draco gets back to the conversation at hand. "Look, Granger, I don't know what is supposed to happen next, but what I do know is that Muggles are FUCKING. CRAZY. They dressed me up as a sheep, Granger. A _sheep_. Who _does_ that? And how in Merlin's Balls did it work? They tied a lamb carcass around my neck for fuck's sake!"

Hermione has no answer to that, truly. Perhaps in the story, there was magic involved with the lamb that would make it more convincing? Magic the Room for some reason did not recreate? She says something to that effect, but Draco just snorts in derision and looks away.

"Such a handsome man. It is no wonder you have so immediately come to love him!"

Hermione looks over at Padma with all the incredulity her small frame can contain. Is _that _how this story goes?!

Lavender speaks next. "Yes, it is only a sorrow your father will not give you up without further deception."

Cho nods sagely. "When this young man returns for you, we know that your father will transform us to ducks so that your prince cannot find you. If only you could signal to him which duck you will be, so he might have you for a wife!"

Oh, this is fucking ridiculous.

Hermione is looking at the three and waiting for whatever paltry wisdom is to come.

There is a long pause as if something is supposed to be happening, then the conversation cycles back to Brown. She snaps her fingers and her eyes light up. "Of course. My lady, you will preen and clean your feathers so that your love might know you. Oh, sweet princess, you are so clever."

The three all nod in agreement as to Hermione's cleverness and then wander off to lounge and eat fruit or whatever it is that they do.

Looking back at her partner, she clears her throat. "So, it appears we have a plan."

Malfoy rolls his eyes so far back, Hermione thinks he might lose them inside his head. "Yes, and what a plan it is. I hide away in this pit of hell for three days with you and tweedles dee, dum, and dumber here, and then trick that moron of a King-"

"Hey! That's my father!"

"Taking your role of princess a bit seriously aren't you," he comments with a sneer. "Of course the king is the princess's father-"

"No, I mean, that's my _dad_ the Room is using. My actual father."

"Oh." He doesn't seem to have anything else to say.

They stand there for a moment, rocking on their heels and glancing around, before either speaks again. Hermione blurts out, "Where have you been?" at the same time that Malfoy asks, "So what is there to do in here?"

Malfoy gestures for her to proceed. "Oh, well, I've been working on my assignment." He snorts, predictably, but doesn't interrupt. "I tried to find an exit at first. I had thought maybe I was supposed to escape, but then I remembered that princesses always need rescuing," she finishes bitterly, crossing her arms.

"Yes, well, Merlin forbid Hermione Granger can't risk her life for a little hero worship, eh?"

She glares at him, very much not appreciating the dig. "I don't do things for hero worship, Malfoy."

"Right. Sure. The satisfaction is its own reward, right, Granger?"

She lifts her chin and sniffs. "Indeed." When he laughs, it's a surprise, but there doesn't seem to be any derision hidden within the mirth. He just seems honestly amused.

When the silence settles again, Hermione gestures for Malfoy to tell his tale. "And you? Where have you been?"

She watches as he steps a few paces and flops onto a plush chair with padded arms. "Well, I found myself in a delightful little village that had an unmistakable scent of pig farm and rotten vegetables. The local fair accounted for the latter. Accommodations were a bit lacking, what with the door that didn't lock and the barmaid that I believe was trying to force herself on me, but all in all I'd give the entire experience zero fucking stars." His voice goes hard at the end, his amusement fading as fast as he put it on. "Surely we don't have to stay here three more days."

"Don't call me Shirley," Hermione mumbles, following with "Nothing," when he asks her to repeat.

Thinking to be polite and picking up that Draco hasn't exactly been living his usual lifestyle, she offers, "Are you hungry? Not a lot of variety at the moment, but I've some fruit just there, and almonds, and some wa-"

"You have apples! Oh thank, Merlin, Salazar, and Circe's shaved cunt. Poor people don't eat fruit in stories like this, Granger. They eat… I don't know… Some slop I can't name. Or potatoes." She watches him pick up a shiny green apple and take a bite, groaning almost inappropriately. Even the ladies in waiting seem to glance up and give him a once over. It's nearly indecent enough to make her blush.

"So fucking good," he moans out. "Ugh.. I could kiss you." Hermione has no idea if she means her or the apple. She's leaning toward the apple.

Malfoy seems to be lost in some little world of his own, alternating between taking bites of the apple, spinning it slowly to reveal the core, and licking juice that runs down his fingers to his hand. At one point he runs his tongue in a line all the way from his wrist to the tip of his pinky finger.

It must be a _really_ juicy apple.

Finally, the core is all that remains, her partner looking quite disappointed as he chucks the remains into a small basket she's been using as a rubbish bin. The end of this piece of fruit cannot come too soon. Hermione is pretty sure she's blushing from her roots to her ankles at this point. Merlin, who enjoys a bloody _apple _that much?

He looks back and catches her staring, his countenance shuttering into one of mistrust. "What?" he barks at her.

"Nothing," she says very, very quickly.

"So, is this it?" Malfoy gestures around the room at her accommodations.

With a wry smile, she offers, "Would you like a tour?"

He snorts and rises to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust or wrinkles from his trousers. "I'd be delighted. Lead the way." He gestures for her to begin.

Moving around the small seating area, she points to the cluster of daft witches, lounging on ornate rugs and pillows, incense burning between them and bowls of fruit scattered near where they lay. "This is the servants' quarters," she says with put-on self importance. Allow me to introduce Tweedles Dee, Dum, and Dumber. They don't say much, which I'm sure is how men in this type of era like them."

Ha appraises them and huffs in what might be mild amusement. She's half surprised his eyes don't linger on the three young woman, laying about with more than their bellies and arms bared.

"Odd choices for the Room," he comments. "Especially the one... what's her name? The Weasley cast-off."

"Lavender," Hermione supplies, noticing it sticks in her throat a little. Poor, poor Lavender Brown. "Did you see other people? Real people? Besides Lockhart that is."

He nods, suddenly bemused. "I was nearly accosted by the Weasel's mother. Took quite the liking to me, matter of fact."

"You were chatted up by Molly Weasley?" she asks, the shake of laughter in her voice.

"Of course not," he denies. "It was much more hands-on than chatting."

Hermione shudders at the thought.

"Well, anyway, moving on to the dining area," she says, sweeping an arm across the view of a low table, top inlaid with gleaming tile, surrounded by floor cushions and topped with arrangements of flowers, fruits, breads, and water. It's a small area, and only a couple of paces from the "servants' lounge". Really, the whole place is just a bit larger than the size of her parents' Great Room in total.

Well, with the exception of the sleeping area; the one semi-private space that seems to have been designated for her.

"Then, of course, is the master suite." Hermione leads Malfoy across the room to the rather decent sized alcove, hidden by a screen. There is only a bed and a small table, but the space has afforded her enough privacy to keep her sanity, hiding from the dimwitted handmaidens currently giggling about the size of the king's….cough… _hands_.

"Not bad," he praises, looking at her, admittedly, comfortable bed with his brows raised. "Better than the straw rats' nest I've been calling home the past few days. With no preamble, she watches him hop on the bed, reclining and looking quite at home.

"Yes, sorry for your misfortune. Now if you don't mind, this is _my_ bed."

"Oh, no no, that won't do. I'm afraid for the duration of our stay, this will have to be _my_ bed, Granger."

Her patience has been onion skin thin for about seventy two hours by now, and it's all Hermione can do to breathe through a complete conniption.

"Malfoy. _Draco_. This is my bed. It has been my bed since I arrived, and it continues to be my bed regardless of any new circumstances. So kindly remove your person from my room!" She's panting when she finishes and is both mortified and gratified to see his eyes widen in surprise.

But instead of conceding, he puts on some ridiculous theatrics.

Hand over his heart, he answers, "But Granger, the only other place to sleep would be…" He pauses, looking around as if concerned for curious ears. "...with the _other witches_. And with you as my betrothed, I think that is _highly_ improper. Those girls out there… " He places his hand beside his mouth, stage whispering the rest. "..._they might try to have their way with me_."

He shudders for effect.

"Are you done?" Eyebrow raised and arms crossed, Hermione looks as thoroughly unimpressed as she feels.

"Just about," he says with a grin. "But I'm still not moving."

She's racking her brain, searching for a way to appeal to him, when she realizes there likely is none. He wants what he wants, and he's used to getting his way.

Fine then; fight Slytherin with Gryffindor.

So, with a shrug, Hermione slips her tie from her neck and slides her robes off her shoulders, leaving herself in her button down and skirt. She's been sleeping nearly nude, but this will have to do for tonight. With one last glance to see if he's moving, she slides into the bed, feet under the covers, and nudges his legs with her own. "Well, shove over then. The least you could do is share."

"I… what?" Apparently boldness is his kryptonite.

"I said, shove over, Malfoy. It's a large enough bed. Surely you don't expect me, the _princess_, to retire with the servant girls?" She gives him a smirk and then settles down, her back to him, and closes her eyes like she's never been more comfortable.

Truthfully, she's a nervous wreck, but she hopes he doesn't know that. She's never shared a bed with a wizard before. A few quick tumbles with Ron at the Burrow, after which she was promptly thrown out lest his "mum come poking around", some heavy snogging sessions with Viktor… but to lie beside a man for an entire night?

Whatever. She can do this. She's Hermione bloody Granger, and she is brave enough to sleep beside a human being.

The bed tossles and bucks as Malfoy roughly settles himself in. "Fine. I'll call your bluff, Princess. Ten galleons says you're cuddled with Brown and Chang by morning."

"Twenty galleons says I'm right here in _my _bed. What you do is no concern to me."

"Fine."

"Fine."

There's a long pause, the irritation and stress that have followed Hermione for days finally giving way to sleep when she hears a petulant but gentle, "Night, Granger."

She grins and falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco wakes slowly from what has been his best sleep in at least days, possibly months, maybe even years.

Why? Well, because the bed is soft, the linens are cool, and fucking _Hermione Granger_ is pressed up against his morning erection with her feet twined between his ankles.

Holy fuck, is this what it's like to sleep with a witch? Draco's never tried it; never had an inclination. His physical experiences are mostly limited to a few stolen kisses and a couple of handsy broom closet sessions, but _this_… Sweet Merlin, this is _divine_.

_But_, a tiny voice says, a tiny voice that sounds a lot like Draco at about twelve years old when he was just learning what the tackle between his legs was good for… _But_, the voice says again, emphatic, i_t's __**Granger**_… Like that means fucking anything.

Draco thinks that the tiny voice can go fuck itself as he cuddles deeper into position with the witch. Her arse is pert, her skin is soft, and Draco has no fucks to give about her swottiness or her affiliations or her regulation skirt and shoes. She's so _warm_.

When he snuggles deeper again, grinding himself, purely by accident of course, against her, he hears a soft moan and would swear to all the Gods that she presses back. He has to bite his lip or else risk making a sound and waking her. Can he feign sleep? How long can he get away with this? He feels himself throb and wonders if she can feel it too. It's a natural body response, after all. She could still believe he's dreaming, right?

He hears her moan a bit again and indulges in a momentary fantasy of Granger turning over and giving him a shy smile.

"Hi," she will say, soft and sweet. "How did you sleep?" she will ask, and Draco will slide impossibly closer, flush against her and arms circling her petite frame. "Best I've ever slept," he will whisper back, and then pillow her bottom lip between his own. She won't protest but hold him tight to her; breasts pushed against him and her foot running a delicate path up his calf. The kiss will deepen, his tongue flicking against the seam of her lips and then pushing them apart, plunging into the warm cavern of her mouth. She will be moaning for him, grinding and whimpering as he snakes one hand up her body to lay possessively against her breast, feeling her nipple pebble immediately under his touch as he swipes his thumb across the peak. Fuck, she feels perfect-

"Malfoy, what the hell!?"

_Oh,_ she's awake.

Granger flies from the bed, breathing heavily in a panic. Thinking fast, he is a Slytherin after all, Draco also scrambles up and stares at her from across the bed. "What the fuck, Granger, did you try something in my sleep?" He's all wide eyes and affront, playing the part of the victim.

"Did _I_ try something?! You were grinding against me!"

"I," he says with a flourish, "was sleeping, _obviously_. If anything untoward occurred, it must have been you who initiated."

She snorts at him. "You can't be serious. You're the one with-" She waves her hand vaguely in the directly of Draco's trousers where, luckily for the argument, there is no longer much evidence of arousal. Having a witch harp at you tends to take care of that rather quickly.

"With what?" he needles, feigning innocence. "A perfectly natural reaction in young men while sleeping? How insensitive of you to draw attention to something I cannot possible control. One might almost think it prejudiced of you."

She gapes at him, and he tries so hard not to snicker at her. "How on earth does that make me prejudiced?!"

"Well, because I can't help it, being male and all. It's a result of my birth. I would have thought you of all people would understand not wanting to be judged on one's status…"

"Oh, Jesus Christ." She buries her head in her hands, and Draco lets the smirk show. She's terribly fun to rile.

"Merlin, Granger, just a bit of a joke. Apologies if I inadvertently crossed a line in my sleep. I hope you were able to get some rest."

She looks up and studies him; probably searching for sincerity, so Draco puts on his serious face. Finally, she sighs. "It's fine. Sorry, I was just...surprised. I'm sure you didn't do it on purpose. No one on planet earth would believe you would ever touch me on _purpose_." She concludes the last comment in a mumble.

He frowns a bit. "That's a bit extreme," he counters. "Never?"

She levels him with a look. "Malfoy, I don't think you would spit on me if I was on fire, less likely knowingly cuddle up against me in bed."

Wow.

"You're serious. Fuck, Granger, what kind of a monster do you think I am?" Barely a beat passes, and he thinks better of the question. "To be clear, that was rhetorical, and I really don't want you to answer."

Before she can argue or whinge or self-deprecate or anything else that is a lot less fun than grinding her arse against him, Draco suggests they grab some breakfast.

"Do your ladies serve you?"

She shrugs. "They try to. Mostly, I keep to his part of the room, and they flit around as if I'm out there, following whatever script in some vague way. Do you want to choose some things and eat here, or would you rather brave the harem of questionable intelligence?"

Draco really considers that a moment. Does he really want to be alone with Granger versus snuggled between three apparitions of beauty and servitude?

Yes, he thinks he does. She's so much more fun. And those girls are fucking twits.

"Here. Can I look over your parchment?"

She is so surprised, she looks struck. "I… suppose? It really isn't much of anything. And needs some serious editing."

Draco waves off her concerns. "It would just be nice to have something to do, Granger. Also, a quick way to recap your experience so far... regardless of whatever arrogant droning you've done." He smirks to take the edge off of the comment and is vindicated when she rolls her eyes but otherwise doesn't react.

His partner tosses a rolled parchment his way that lands on the bed just in front of him and then disappears behind the screen. Draco hears a chorus of "good mornings" and general giggles and titters. It seems as though the maidens want to 'dish' about what their Princess got up to with a rogue in her bed chamber. Draco grins. For all of Granger's protests, he would call what they briefly shared at least a 'bludger dodge', if not a 'quaffle through the hoop'. He wonders if anyone has gone all the way and 'caught Granger's golden snitch'…

Idly, he also wonders what Muggles use for athletic sex metaphors…

When she returns, Granger has a large tray laden with the fruits, breads, and nuts that seem plentiful in the room. An array of cheeses have also been added since the night before. Setting it down in the middle of the bed, she hops up behind it, sitting cross-legged in her skirt with virtually no consideration for how the fabric slides up her thighs or how her button down is gaped open as one button is stretched across the middle of her chest.

Is the witch unaware that she has tits and legs? For that matter, is Potter unaware? The prick shared a tent alone with her for weeks. He had to have shagged her, right? Draco certainly would have, given half the chance. She shifts, and the movement widens the gap in her blouse just a wee bit further, revealing black lace that rests lovingly against the swell of her breast-

She's talking.

"What?"

"I said, do you want the apricot or the plum?"

He frowns at the options, back on the task of breakfast. "Where are the apples?"

"Gone," she says, flippantly. "I think the girls ate the last of them."

He stares at her, breathing out in a whisper, "Those utter cunts."

Draco is pretty serious about apples. Granger doesn't seem to get that, because she laughs at him. "So _dramatic_." With one last snicker, she tosses him a pear. "There, close enough. It's green and hard and has a core."

"Blasphemy."

She just laughs at him again, biting into a plum and licking the juice from the corner of her mouth. He eats the damn pear.

* * *

Alright, so, full disclosure, Hermione was actually awake for quite some time that morning, and she has been reflecting on it throughout the day.

Her first thought as slumber started to slip away was how warm and comfortable she was. She had snuggled deeper into her little cocoon only to realize her backside was pressed against something a bit more sturdy than the blankets surrounding her.

The truth is, she had initiated the whole thing, wriggling just so until she pulled a soft moan from the wizard behind her.

She'd had a decision to make then, and it was full on logic versus temptation for five glorious minutes. When she felt a soft huff hit her neck, warm breath tickling at the skin on her shoulder, she wondered if he was awake.

Hermione indulged in the fantasy for just a moment but ultimately didn't think she could go through with whatever was happening. Feigning sleep and enjoying the physicality for just a moment was all well and good, but she couldn't actually _do_ anything with him, right? They hardly even get along…

And so, she'd fled. It was that or reach behind her to grab at the back of his neck and pull his lips to hers.

Would have been hard to pretend to be sleeping after _that_.

Which leaves her here, some time mid day, working on her paper and stealing glances up at Malfoy while he naps on the sofa next to her chair.

She never knows exactly what time it is, but additional foods are delivered fairly regularly that seem to coincide with three square. Taking that into account, it is sometime between lunch and dinner, perhaps the middle of the afternoon.

Realizing she never actually ate anything since breakfast, Hermione drops the parchment and quill, stretching out her back and rising from her seat.

"Can we get you anything, Your Highness?"

Not-Lavender is looking at her with large, innocent eyes that dart between Hermione and the spread of fruits, nuts, and cheeses still laid out for her to enjoy.

"Thank you, no," she denies. "I'll just grab a little something."

The witch looks all heartbroken and needy, like a bloody house elf. Is the universe so inclined to make Hermione Granger a believer in servitude?

With a sigh, she amends, "Yes, please. I'll just have some grapes and a little of the white cheese."

The girl scrambles, actually _scrambles_, to cross the room and prepare a plate, as if she is afraid the other witches might beat her to it.

Taking a seat at the low table, Hermione thanks her lady and munches for a bit on the fruit. Lost in thought, her mind keeps wandering to the early morning and Draco Malfoy's lean and solid body rubbing against hers.

How long has it been since she broke things off with Ron? Two months? They barely even got started, really. Less than a year, and she knew they weren't meant to be. The relationship was a chore most days. Their sex life… Well, it was new and different in the beginning, both of them pretty inexperienced at the start. Initially it was fun...exciting...but at some point, monotony took over and Ron found his favourites and arrested any further exploration.

And really, that was the crux of their entire romance coming to an end. Not just physically, but in all aspects of life. Hermione is an ambitious, hard-working person. Ron Weasley doesn't just seek out the path of least resistance, he stakes a claim as mayor of Lazy-topia in nearly all things.

It's hard to miss something you've barely even had, but Hermione is starting to theorize she would might very much like sex if given the opportunity to have it regularly.

She's still musing on her own sexual awakening when she hears, first, the creak of furniture, and then, the scratching of quill on parchment.

Hermione spins around and sees the back of Draco from over her chair, leaned over something, arm working as if writing. Has he started his assignment? That makes her feel a bit smug after he had scoffed at her for the same. She has that same confident expression on her face when she makes her way over to their seating area.

"Well, well," she teases, "_now_ who's the swot-HEY!" Not _his_ assignment at all… he's marking all over _hers_! "Excuse me, but what do you think you're doing?!"

"Editing."

Editing, he says. Fucking editing. "Malfoy, that is _my_ parchment! I've not even proofread it!"

"I should hope not. Brightest witch of our age, they say, and you missed three commas in the introduction alone."

Stomping across the space to stand over him, Hermione thrusts out her hand. "Give it to me."

He looks unimpressed, leaning back in the chair and raising a single pale eyebrow. How does he even do that? Hermione's entire brow moves in unison like a synchronized swim team.

"But I've not finished."

"Oh, yes, you are quite finished," she comments, reaching for the paper. He holds it away and over his head, arm bent over the back of the chair.

"Ah, ah. Not polite to grab, Granger."

"It's not polite to pilfer someone else's homework, _Malfoy_. Now, hand it here."

He smirks and slips under her reaching arm, dancing away from her with the paper in hand. "Not until I've finished."

Hermione stomps her foot and releases a rather loud growl of frustration. "Give. It. Here!"

"Come get it," he invites, and suddenly the air seems more charged than before. Or maybe that's her imagination. If he wanted to find a way to make her back off, he certainly found it: by inviting her to come closer.

"Fine," she finally spits out, waving her hand around like it doesn't matter that much. "Enjoy yourself. It would've been much easier for you if you'd waiting until I'd proofed it."

"But then I wouldn't see that Hermione Granger isn't perfect after all," he says with a bit of a mock pout. Oh, he's infuriating.

"I never claimed perfection," she argues, looking away.

He doesn't respond with more than a grunt of acknowledgement, and Hermione goes about trying to ignore him. She had hoped he might concede her the point, but at least he didn't argue.

Picking up a fresh parchment, she begins a detailed account of the morning thus far, including her ladies' attempts to groom her to which she swiftly put an end. "I think I can bathe myself, thanks," she had snapped out at them, and then ordered them to stay outside the screen that separates the soaking tub from the rest of the room. She'd kept her knickers on as well. It's not that she doesn't trust Malfoy necessarily. He's a great many pratty things, but she doesn't take him for someone who would disrespect a witch by peeping. Not that he's exactly _respectful_, but there's a wide line between quips and sexual misconduct.

Plus all evidence points to him loving his mother dearly. Men who love their mums like that tend to have respect for that wide line.

"You've hung a preposition," he comments, breaking the silence. He follows the comment with a mocking tsk noise and gives her an annoyingly handsome grin.

"Let me see," she barks, lunging toward the parchment. He pulls it away out of her reach.

"It's right here," he says, pointing to the paper. "You've used 'under' with no object. Just thought you might want to fix that," he offers very, very sweetly. What a prick.

Hermione hates letting errors make their way into her papers. Granted, she warned him it hadn't been edited and chooses to remind him again. "I do believe I implied this was a rough draft, Malfoy. I'd have caught that in edits, I'm sure."

"Of course," he agrees, and sounds like he doesn't mean it at all.

"You know what? I think you're done."

She rises from her seat and stomps over, grabbing at her parchment again. He tries to pull it away over her head, but she leans above him, hand balanced on the arm of his chair. Her fingertips close around the edge, and she utters a "ha" in triumph...

The triumph is short lived when she promptly loses her balance and takes a knee against the cushion on the right side of his lap, her body leaning into him on the left. She looks down as he looks up, finding the tip of her nose very close to the bridge of his. His palm, she only then realizes, is braced against her hip.

"Alright, Granger?"

"Fine... sorry." Her voice is soft and she feels very distracted. What was she doing, again?

Right, the parchment.

She retracts herself slowly, standing and taking the parchment with her, feeling his hand linger and fingertips slowly slide off of her as she rises. "I'll just have a look at your notes," she tells him, then in a very cowardly fashion, runs away to her bed to hide, blood rushed to her cheeks in some unhealthy mix of mortification and excitement.

* * *

Once something is known, it's hard to unknow it. The seen cannot be unseen.

Hermione has now known, seen, and realized… that Malfoy is _really_ fit.

And so, Hermione, knowing and seeing and realizing, tries very hard to discount the fact as relevant. Tons of wizards of good looking. Literal tons. And Hermione knows what literal means, thanks, so it's more than a few.

Being good looking isn't really all that special. It's accomplished by many, some with more effort than others. Even Hermione managed it once or twice. She may not be beating off wizards with a proverbial stick, but Viktor hadn't complained when she presented herself at the Yule Ball. Ron hadn't complained when she donned a little makeup and a short dress for their first official date.

The point is, physical beauty is not the most important aspect of human companionship. Just because he made her heart flutter a little, her palms sweat, her cheeks flush…

Her knickers dampen…

Hermione shakes her head at herself and goes back to her edits. One accidental cuddle and a whopping three seconds nose to nose and she's hiding like a coward.

What is it about Malfoy, anyway? Objectively, Harry is very attractive, and you don't see Hermione fawning all over him. For that matter, take a look at Slytherin house on the whole. What, like Malfoy is the only good looking wizard amongst them? Blaise Zabini might not be in attendance this year, but no one has forgotten he was virtually Adonis come to earth. Theo Nott has this whole studious vibe going on that Hermione finds very appealing.

She looks down once again to realize that she's not changed one item on her parchment. She resolutely keeps deciding not to think about her project partner, only to then get caught up _thinking about her bloody partner_. It's ridiculous, is what it is.

The paper can wait. She's hungry, and Hermione refuses to hide any longer.

She emerges to find Malfoy sitting on the sofa where she left him, her three ladies draped around him, and a sour expression on his face.

"-love for you is so apparent. Oh, to have someone look at me the way our princess gazes at you."

"The longing and adoration… it must make your heart soar to know one of your station is so highly regarded by Her Highness."

"Such fortune for you both! You are strong and brave; the princess of unparalleled beauty. What glorious heirs you will make-"

"That's enough!"

Draco roars at the three witches and jumps to his feet. It's only then that he catches sight of Granger and what she assumes to be a very amused expression.

She assumes that is the general quality of her expression because she is _quite_ amused..

"Can't you… I don't know… make them stop?" He gestures with agitation at the harem, as they stare up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

She returns in a deadpan, "But who else will chronicle the story of our undying love?"

The look he gives her is disgruntled and unimpressed, and it makes her giggle before clearing her throat and trying to be serious.

"I just thought I might have something to eat. Would you like to join me?"

Malfoy doesn't say anything for a moment, long enough that it almost becomes uncomfortable, and Hermione starts to think she misread the level of camaraderie between them. She'd started to entertain the notion that maybe he isn't so terrible, and now she wishes she'd not spoken at all.

She starts to turn, mumbling a dejected, "never mind", when he stands and slides his hands in his pockets.

With a shrug and a crooked grin, he says, "I could eat," and Hermione smiles back.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, after a surprisingly pleasant day, Draco slips under the sheets of the Princess' bed.

She doesn't protest or make a fuss, just slides underneath and lays with her back facing him. He thinks to quip in some regard about Granger staying on her side but thinks better of it. If he makes a ruckus about the situation, she might try resolutely to stay away.

And really, was waking up pressed against her so terrible? No, thanks very much, it was not. It was delightful, to be completely honest.

It was also, since we are on the subject, pretty nice when the witch nearly toppled into his lap while reaching for her parchment. Her hip had been trim and firm, palmed in his hand. Her curls, unruly as ever, had tickled his neck and face, curtained around them and making the situation that much more intimate. What would it be like, his mind had wondered during the day, to look up into her delicate face, her mane trapping them and their breath mingling between their lips? He had envisioned it quite vividly throughout the evening; enough so that there was something akin to anticipation when it came time to retire.

Could he facilitate another morning wrapped up with her? He experiments, edging closer, only an infinitesimal amount. She doesn't move; her breath stays even. Can he feign sleep well enough in case she wakes? Draco has a lot of faith in his own abilities to sneak, scheme, and bullshit his way through life. He was sorted how he was sorted for much more than blood purity.

In the back of his mind, he thinks he should be wondering why he is suddenly so interested in Granger, but really can't be bothered. Malfoys live by desires and instinct. Why _shouldn't_ he want her? She's quite lovely, now that he takes a second look. Who wouldn't be drawn to her creamy complexion and the freshly-shagged look of her hair? She's petite but curvy and altogether a very fit little package.

Beyond that? She's smart. Yes, of course, her swotty tendencies and know-it-all behaviors can be irritating on a good day, but Draco likes a witch with a clever mind and sharp tongue, both of which Granger boasts in spades. She's also very bold, and, in Draco's limited experience, that can translate well in the bedroom. Pansy, for instance. He'd not actually slept with her, and she had been technically untouched at the time as well, but she never shied away from giving orders and asking for what she wanted. He found it quite alluring, the way she would demand to be touched. In his fantasies, Granger is demanding, as well, in the most delicious way.

Inching just a bit more, Draco turns so he is on his back instead of facing away from her. This is the first step in Operation: Spoon the Fuck out of Granger. He's biding his time, letting her fall more deeply into sleep. Not terribly sleepy himself, he thinks he can wait it out. Just a bit longer, and he will turn to his side, facing her back. Then it is just a matter of edging closer, of eventually throwing his arm across her waist. Before long, he can cuddle right into her and relax. It's not like he's going to really try anything with her asleep, but he had never felt more comfortable than when he held her close, his body bent around her smaller frame.

The bed shifts beside him, and Granger snuggles deeper into her position. Her bum grazes the side of his thigh as she wriggles beneath the sheets. Draco waits, breath held, anticipating an embarrassed apology, or even a defensive accusation.

Neither comes, and so Draco assumes that means she is well and truly out. Now is the time, he thinks. Carefully, eyes closed to facilitate the facade of sleep, he turns to his side, one arm under his head and the other draped on his own side and hip. Granger makes no change in breathing or position. One last step, one final movement, his arm reaching gently over her waist and…

Success! Operation complete. Draco is spooning the fuck out of Granger.

With a contented sigh, he shifts carefully just a hair closer, and settles in for the night. His face tilts down, nose just almost brushing the skin of her shoulder, and promptly falls asleep.

* * *

"Daughter? My lovely princess, are you still enjoying your slumber?"

Hermione's eyes snap open at the sound of her father's voice, and she scrambles into a seated position. She glances over to find Malfoy staring at her with very wide eyes.

She is more than aware that, up until the king broke the silence, they were once again locked in an embrace, Hermione feigning sleep. Does her partner realize he had held her close, his breath ruffling the curls at her neck? Probably not, but, Merlin, it had been indulgent.

"Erm… just a moment, Father."

She tosses the covers back and plants her feet on the floor, then looks back to find Malfoy looking panicked.

"Just… stay here," she whispers.

"Where is that darling lamb? I hope he has been a pleasant companion thus far."

She squeezes her eyes closed. Fuck.

"Alright, new plan," she amends, quietly. "Where's the pelt?"

Looking around, a bit frantic, they finally spy the gilded fleece lying on a chair near the bed. With a sigh of relief, Hermione snags it and tosses it at Malfoy.

"Oh, just lovely," she calls back. "He's been such a dear. You must thank the merchant on my behalf when he returns to collect him."

She is watching the fleece as it is wrapped around Malfoy's neck, he looking both sleepy and also disgruntled. What a picture he makes, hair a bit of a mess from sleep, the collar of his shirt slightly askew, and a painted carcass perched on top of his head. She snickers.

"What?" he bites out, as quietly as possible.

"It's a good look for you," she whispers back. "Very chic."

She only giggles harder when he tosses her a two fingered salute.

Without waiting for him, Hermione leaves their private enclosure, circling the screen that hides her bed to greet her father. She looks away when she finds that he has one hand palming Cho's hip and the other settled underneath Lavender's breast, his fingertips almost touching the underside.

_Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy._

"Morning," she grumbles, feeling less jovial and making her way to a low table with water set out for her and her entourage.

"Ah, my flower. More beautiful everyday. Lucky is the man who finally wins your hand."

"Yes," she agrees dryly. "Any prospects?"

"Alas, none. The last attempt was weeks ago. Poor lad, only sixteen, and now look at him: No head."

Hermione grits her teeth. This is the most awful fairytale she's ever heard! Who wrote this rubbish?

"Little lamb!" Her father calls in a sing-song voice, looking toward the room divider and hoping for a glimpse of her borrowed pet. He turns to her to ask, "It's friendly, isn't it? Please tell me that merchant didn't dare present my beautiful princess with a wild beast."

"No, no," she's quick to assure. She knows it's only a story, but even in the Room she doesn't wish to see Gilderoy lose his head. "He's very sweet, really."

The king waves his hand, gesturing as though to send her away. "Bring him, then. Let's see this very sweet lamb."

"Right… erm… lamb?" She clears her throat, feeling even more ridiculous. "Please come out, little lamb."

When Draco emerges he looks every bit as disgruntled as before. This time, Hermione doesn't laugh. She's feeling equally put out.

"Bah."

Alright, but that's funny. Hermione giggles just a moment, a split second, and would swear she sees Malfoy trying to hide a smile.

"Ah, delightful! Well, go on then…"

Hermione looks at her father, and he is still making those shooing motions. "Give the dear a little pet. Such a clever animal, coming to you when called."

Hermione looks at Malfoy with wide eyes, and he has the nerve to smirk at her. She walks closer, her back to the king and her ladies, and pleads with her gaze that he not make this too awkward.

When she's close enough, he whispers low, "Go on then, Granger. Give me a little _pet_."

Her cheeks flame as his smile grows wider. "Oh, you are such a-" She cuts herself off, looking back at their audience, and tries again. "Such a darling little beast." _Beast_ is hit especially hard with just a bit of malice for seasoning. Gingerly, she reaches forward and strokes a hand down the pelt just over his shoulder, his look all the while smug and infuriating.

"Yes, yes, I see! What a dear creature. I am so glad he could bring a little life into your days."

Hermione thinks letting her out of this prison would be a more obvious way to accomplish that.

The demonstration over, Hermione visits for a few moments with the King, Draco wandering off for the duration of that conversation. Within a short time, her father seems satisfied and makes his way to the wall that hides the exit.

"Have a lovely day, my treasure."

Hermione sighs with relief once he's gone.

Draco whips the pelt from his shoulders immediately, and faux-Cho exclaims in surprise, "Oh! I may never grow accustomed to such magic! The merchant is surely a warlock to cast such a spell!"

Draco throws Hermione a look, and they share a moment, amused and indulgently smug.

"Day two then… What should we do?"

Draco rolls his eyes, but it's accompanied by a crooked grin. "Well, we've so many choices, Granger. However will we choose?"

Hermione answers with her own smirk, eyes rolling to the ceiling in mock exasperation. "Just trying to pass the time, Malfoy."

"How about breakfast?" he asks. "My treat." She can't help but grin in response (maybe even the tiniest giggle slips through her lips), aware she is growing dangerously accustomed to his banter. Equal to how familiar she is becoming to waking in his embrace. It won't do, getting so comfortable. Once this little assignment is over, she's sure he will run right back to his snake pit, perhaps into Daphne's bed. They seem close… The thought itself isn't as sobering as her own emotional reaction to it.

_Not good, Hermione_. She best keep her silly little grain of a crush in check.

"Breakfast," she agrees with a nod, but the light has dimmed in her expression. She crosses to the table and begins to fill a small plate with some odd breads and fruits, not noticing the slight frown of Malfoy's expression.

* * *

Granger seems oddly quiet for awhile, barely speaking through breakfast, then hiding away on a chair in the corner with a book. She had mentioned yesterday the books held no real interest for her.

Has he done something wrong? Draco thought they had been getting on oddly well. Morning, in particular, having been his favorite time of day.

He's just about had enough, ready to drag her out of the chair and ask why she's pouting or whatever the hell this is, when she laughs like an insane person, alone and with no audience but a book.

"Care to give us a hint as to what's caught your fancy?" He thought to sound playful, but Draco can admit his tone is bitter. He's been sitting by himself for hours, after all. Playfulness is in short supply.

She looks up at him as if she almost forgot he was in the room. Draco doesn't care for that in the slightest. He's not a forgettable wizard, thanks ever so. In fact, Draco thinks he's pretty fucking memorable.

"Sorry," she says, and it seems oddy sincere; as if she's afraid he finds her laughter bothersome.

Draco rises from his seat and saunters over, standing just behind the back of Granger's chair to look over her shoulder. His eyes scan the page a moment, aware Granger has stiffened a bit, but doesn't move to close the book or hide it from his line of sight. It only takes him a paragraph to realize what it is.

He snorts, getting the joke. "Our fairytale," he notes. "So, how does it end, Granger? I hope it's not one of those tragic tales that end in one of us losing a foot or a head."

She flips to the next page, head tilting as she looks from one side to the other. "Then the princess, according to their understanding, began to clean her wings with her bill, and the lad said, She who cleans her wings is the princess. Now the King could do nothing more but give her to the young man to wife, and they lived together in great joy and happiness."

She looks up at him, neck craned to peek just behind and above. "Well, there you have it. Our little ruse will work, it seems."

"Right," he agrees, plastering on a crooked smile. "And it appears I shall have you for a wife. I wonder how long this plays out. Will we get to experience some 'joy and happiness' before the Room kicks us out?" He wriggles his brow at her suggestively.

With slightly pink cheeks, she looks back down at the book, hair falling like a curtain around her. "I'm sure the Room knows better than that." Her voice has an edge he doesn't recognize from the fairly plane-spoken witch.

Frowning, Draco moves around and perches on the footstool in front of her chair. He tries to appear casual, but his tone is serious. "Knows better than what?"

Refusing to return his gaze, Granger starts to flip through the book absently, obviously not reading, but simply looking for distraction. "You know. Knows better than to trap us here that long."

"We've probably only been here a few minutes, Granger. I'm sure Jayne wouldn't leave us trapped in here for days. Just an illusion."

She snorts and agrees, "Right. Illusion. Regardless, I'm sure the Room is fully aware that 'joy and happiness' is the last thing that might come from trapping you here with me."

Now that's just uncalled for. "I think I've been fairly pleasant company, actually," he argues with a petulant frown.

Finally, she looks up, eyes a bit wide. "Oh, no, you have. I just meant… I don't know what I meant. I'm just sure there are a thousand witches with better heritage that you'd prefer to be trapped with."

"Better heritage? Fuck, Granger, you think that's still a priority for me? After what I've seen?"

Draco leans away, feeling nearly struck. Has he not made an obvious effort to make amends? Perhaps 'obvious' isn't the word; he never formally apologized… But he's most certainly been nothing but civil to, not only the witch before him, but every other student at Hogwarts, blood status be damned.

She shrugs, looking at bit like she's given up on something. "People don't change that much. Evolve over time, sure, but you don't just give up on a life philosophy that fast."

"It wasn't fast," he argues, now the one to look away. "It took years." Taking a chance at meeting her gaze again, he focuses hard on her face, forcing her to do the same. "You have to know how much you affected that."

"Me?"

"How could I continue to believe what I did, growing up with you, watching you learn magic just like the rest of us? Learning it and becoming one of the most powerful witches I know? It didn't _just happen_, Granger. It started on the Express, when you asked me if you'd seen a toad, and you were so blasted confident, I wasn't sure how I'd never met you before. Finding out you were Muggle-born and therefore off limits was the first in many of life's disappointments."

She's staring at him, looking dumbstruck. Draco feels suddenly uncomfortable; scrutinized. He tries for levity to change the subject. "So, what else does this story say about our time here? Do I stay all three days? No incidents?"

Granger shakes her head as if to clear it and looks back down at the book in her lap. "Right… emm… well, as you know, I fall immediately in love with you."

"Plausible," he quips, answered by a good natured roll of her eyes.

"Then, apparently, we spend our days 'chatting and caress'- oh." She cuts off, looking embarrassed. "Well, I suppose the Room is allowing a loose interpretation of the fairytale."

A slow grin crawls across his lips. "Oh, I don't know. We are chatting now, after all. And caressing might be a slightly strong word, but there were some intimate touches this morning…"

Her eyes are wide, and she gasps out in accusation, "You were awake!"

His smile has evolved to an absolute leer, smug with lips curled. "And you've just confirmed you were as well, little lion."

She tries and spectacularly fails to cover a shy smile with mock irritation.

Draco doesn't want to push his luck, as it were. He nods at the book once more. "And beyond that? Does the King employ his treachery? Turn you into a bird?"

She skims further and snorts. "Absolutely. This is the most asinine story I've ever heard."

"Because Muggles don't know how magic works, obviously."

She glares at him, and agrees with emphasis, "_Obviously_. Since they aren't allowed to know about it."

"Because they hunted us, Granger."

"That was centuries ago!"

Draco looks at her, completely incredulous. "And you think it would be different _now_? Do you have evidence to support that? Muggles are open minded and forgiving, all bigotry ended?"

"No," she agrees, holding his gaze and continuing with a punctuated, "There is certainly prejudice _everywhere_."

How had they come back to this? Apparently his apology was not enough. "Not here," he argues softly. "Not in this room. Look, Granger, whatever happens when we leave here, right now I want to assure you I don't think less of you in any way. Not your blood, your gender, your appearance… There is nothing you shouldn't be proud of."

"My House?"

Draco sputters for a moment then catches her biting her bottom lip, a smile threatening to stretch them wide. With exaggeration born of relief, he concedes, "Well, of course, _that_. House lines run deep, witch."

She laughs a little at that, and Draco thinks this is a turning point. He made a joke at her expense, tame though it was, and she found humour in it. This is how friendships are built. Suddenly, the possibilities are endless.


	5. Chapter 5

"First spell."

Hermione watches Draco search the recesses of his mind. What started as light conversation has turned into an informative tit for tat, revealing details to each other in turns. Hermione has gained some understanding of who Draco is, outside the redeemed Death Eater, recovering bully, and raging snark-aholic that she knows him to be.

After some contemplation, Draco answers, "_Aguamenti_."

"Really?" She scrunches her face in confusion, trying to imagine a reason a child would not start their accidental magic with something more simplistic… Levitating a sweet from a high counter or something. "Seems an odd choice."

He shrugs in concession but explains, "I accidentally set fire to Mother's Aubusson rug. It seemed the best way to fix it."

"That doesn't sound 'accidental'," she accuses with a smirk. "How old were you?"

"Six. No, seven. I think seven. I'd heard my father use the charm to fill our koi pond after a renovation. I think the panic pushed my magic even without a wand. So, accidental on purpose, I suppose."

Hermione flops back against the sofa, letting out a huffed laugh. "Incredible. I wish I'd known what was happening to me back then," she adds wistfully. She can hardly fathom what it would have been to understand all the strange things that happened around and because of her at that age.

"What was yours?" he asks, and she must admit, he seems sincere in his interest.

Hermione blushes. "I turned a boy's hair green when he made fun of my lunch pail."

Draco lets his mouth quirk into that boyish smirk she knows so well. But was it always that charming? Does she see him differently because they have been having a civil and enlightening few days? Or has it changed, morphed into something friendly and sincere?

"You vindictive little witch," he says with humour. "And how old were you?"

"Six."

He looks impressed. "Pretty solid charms work for someone who didn't even know what a charm was."

"Imagine what I could have done if I'd known an actual spell," she quips. He doesn't react as she would have expected. Instead of a small laugh or a returned jab, he looks contemplative.

"I don't know if the wizarding world could have handled a more powerful Hermione Granger, but it would have been a sight to see."

It's sounds like a devastatingly profound compliment, so Hermione takes it as such and answers softly, "Thank you."

"Why did you break if off with Weasley?"

Of all the personal questions they've asked, this is new territory. Hermione's head snaps up to look at him, finding his face impassive in a way that is purposeful. There is no reason, after the way that Draco has been behaving the past two days, to suspect that he is trying to find a way to ridicule her, so she takes a breath and answers honestly. "We don't want the same things, and I couldn't see that leading anywhere but heartbreak."

He nods in understanding, but seems to be looking for more. When she hesitates, he prods, "What future was it that he saw and you couldn't share?"

Hermione tilts her head to the side, working out how best to answer without making Ron sound terrible. He's still her friend, after all. A dear and beloved friend, even if his boyfriend potential was low.

"Ron is… an easily satisfied person in some regards. He has his sights set on a position with his brother at the joke shop once we've finished Hogwarts. He won't be made a partner, but George offered him management once he franchises. Ron's quite excited at the prospect. They open the shop at eleven and close at six, so he can have a lie in and never work too late into the evening. It's a stable and predictable career choice with virtually no risk and moderate reward."

Draco nods. "And you?"

She grins at him, but answers with sincerity, "Oh, I'm going to be Minister someday."

He's surprised into a laugh, but there is no derision there. More shocked delight. "I wouldn't bet odds against you, Granger. So basically, you're an ambitious, ruthless, vindictive witch, as we previously established, and need someone a bit less complacent?"

"I'm not _that_ vindictive," she denies with a bit of a pout.

He raises a brow and says simply, "In a _jar_, Granger," in reference to her Rita Skeeter confession, which brings her faded blush right back to full force.

Trying to take the focus off herself, Hermione asks, "So what about you and Parkinson?" and regrets it immediately. Does she really want to hear about his romps with that nasty little snot? And that sentiment surprises her even more. Why should she care at all?

In reality, she knows why. She's just firmly entrenched in denial.

He looks bemused. "Pansy? We were hardly the happily-ever-after potential of you and Weasley. It was brief, casual, and childish, and neither of us had any delusions it was more than an alliance with snogging benefits."

"Just snogging?"

_The FUCK, Hermione? _In her head, she's mortified at herself for even asking.

His eyes go a little wide, and Hermione can say she seems to have honestly floored him with the question. He licks his lips before answering. "Snogging, and perhaps a bit more inventive use of our mouths." Without missing a beat, he counters, "And Weasley? Snogging or… more?"

Hermione looks him in the eye when she answers bold but softly, "More."

"How much more?" His voice has taken on a low and rough quality, and he still holds her gaze. The air feels close, like it has weight, and she is trapped in this moment. Her mind wanders, not where it should, into memories of her and Ron sneaking quick indulgences at the Burrow over the summer, but to the morning just hours before, grinding against the wizard currently staring her down with a look like hunger.

She stands, looking for an escape from the tension that threatens to drown her or send her down a path she isn't sure she should want to take. "We never had dinner," she announces. "We should eat before it's too late."

He nods, not moving from his seat, leg crossed over his knee and eyes partially obscured as he looks up through his fringe.

Hermione turns on the spot, curls flying over her shoulder, and retreats, mind racing toward the quickly approaching end of their day and a single bed to share. Excitement and nerves at war, she makes herself a plate of the Room's offerings and sits on the cushions around the table with her back to a still-staring Malfoy. She can feel his gaze like heat, and her heart races as she picks at a meager dinner of fruit and bread.

* * *

The remainder of the evening is spent in tense but friendly silence. Perhaps contemplation would be the correct word.

Hermione isn't sure if it's mutual or only in her own raging mind, but her thoughts are cycling around her partner and the intimate conversation they'd danced around. The look he had given her… Well, there can be no mistaking there was more than curiosity in his gaze.

When it is time to retire for the evening, their third and final night together living in this strange fantasy, she takes a little more than usual time to ready herself, anticipation driving her to both preparatory and procrastinating extra steps.

When she circles the divider that splits the room and hides their bed from the view of her ladies, she finds Draco already tucked under the sheets, his bare chest partially visual and one arm tucked behind his head. She blushes at the sight of him and feels foolish for it all the same.

Hermione approaches what has become her side of the bed and lifts the sheet to slide her legs beneath, puffing out the candle by her bedside. She is slow and purposeful in movement, suddenly aware of her own lines and curves in a way she hasn't been since her first fumbling physicalities with Ron.

Does her arched back present her chest just so? If she flexes her calf and points her toes, does the angle of her leg speak to the tension of a body in the throes? When her tongue flicks out to wet the corner of her mouth, tasting the bit of mint paste she just used to clean her teeth, does he notice? Does his mind wander to other uses he might have for that tongue?

Tingling and aware, she settles onto her side, back to the wizard, and tries to relax into her position. When she works her hips to settle into the mattress, is there a bit more grinding than is necessary? When the satin slips off her shoulder, should she lift it to hide the skin gaping at her loosened collar? She stares wide-eyed into the near-dark of the room, seeing nothing yet unable to close her eyes. She breathes slow, counting her exhales, lest her chest heave with the short, quick pants to which she would likely succumb.

In the dark, he says, softly, "Tomorrow, then."

She catches his meaning and glances back over her shoulder, finding only the faintest outline of him in the residual glow of a single candle beyond the screen. "Tomorrow. Do you think we've really been here for days? Or has the passing time just been an illusion of the Room?"

There is a long silence, she assumes as he considers the question. Finally, he answers, "Seems as though it would be dangerously tempting magic if no time had passed. We could spend countless lifetimes here and never age."

Hermione turns that over in her mind, allowing herself to briefly envision what that might mean. They could indulge any fantasy for as long as they want, with no repercussions from their real lives.

She turns a bit more, feeling her blouse pull across her breast and wondering if he can see it at all; hoping against her better judgement that he can.

"First kiss?"

She can see his head jerk to look in her direction, startled by the question, and thinks she sees his mouth stretch into a crooked grin. "Technically?"

She laughs and quips back, "Well, not your mother or anything like that."

He snorts in turn, sounding amused. "Not what I meant, Granger. But, technically, it was Daphne Greengrass, and we were seven."

She giggles a little, but doesn't have time to respond before he continues. "But truly? Pansy. In third year behind the greenhouses."

"So she was your first everything," she asks, unable to stop herself. Hermione closes her eyes, not actually wanting to know the answer.

He's quiet again, then says, a confession in the dark, "Not everything. I've not had a first _everything_ yet."

Oh.

She supposes he had implied as much in their game of questions from before.

"Waiting for the right witch?" she asks.

He chuckles and agrees, "Something like that. And yours? Who stole the first kiss of Hermione Granger?"

She grins, remembering just briefly the moment in her past. "Viktor."

"Of course, Krum. War heroine and celebrity boyfriends. Only the best for you." She thinks there is a little something bitter underneath, but he's trying to sound playful. She allows him the front and ignores the bite.

"Of course. I'm an only child, Draco; I never settle. I'm sure you understand."

He laughs softly, and Hermione turns a bit more so she is comfortably on her back. "Yes, that I understand."

"And was Pansy the best?"

The following quiet, his silent pause, makes her regret continuing their game. Has she crossed a line? Hermione is treading dangerous and uncharted waters. Will he be offended? Intrigued? She's not sure she's ready for either.

"It's hard to say for certain," he works out slowly, "but I have a feeling there is better out there."

She feels the bed shift as he turns and sees him propped up on one elbow, looking down at her. Breathing slowly is becoming a chore, a battle she is losing to the tension in her limbs. How far is she willing for this to go?

"Only the best for Draco Malfoy," she whispers, and then feels his large, soft hand trail her cheek.

"It seems we have that in common. Maybe we just expect what we have to offer."

She whimpers. It's completely incoherent, and she feels like a fool, but she does it anyway. Her words are failing her, so she lifts a hand to lay against his, trapping him as he cups her cheek.

"Can I kiss you?"

She thinks only briefly to ask 'why', the ever present curse of being a teenage girl and all the self doubt contained therein clenching at her with questions and distrust. But no amount of doubt is able to erase the very real fact that she _wants_ this. It's a feeling like thirst, more than the discovery of young love or the pull of a crush. Has she ever truly wanted anything before this? It feels like whatever it could have been must have been pale and colorless in comparison.

So she nods, knowing he can barely see, but will feel the motion in his fingertips. She doesn't believe she had hesitated, but the eagerness in his movement makes her feel sluggish in turn. Draco presses his mouth tightly against hers at first, then eases back and narrowly parts his lips, working them softly with her own.

Her own kiss is far from hesitant, though gentle in response to his delicate movement. It is a kiss that takes time and learns, evolves in action and changes meaning. What started for only a moment as desperate, quickly turns to exploration. Hermione is learning what it is to kiss Draco Malfoy, to want him and be desired. She can feel it in the grip of his fingers tilting her jaw, in his leg that has snaked between hers and is running a line up her calf. She feels something shift, the air around them so heavy, she can feel it suffuse her to the bed just as Draco's body lays more firmly atop hers. The kiss deepens, and they are no longer learning, not discovering anything. They have found all they needed, and now it is a conflict, lips sucked and tongue pushed roughly with the other. She feels like he is eating her alive, and she races to consume him first.

When he shifts again, he is pressed hard into the cradle of her thighs, arms trapping her beneath him as he continues to taste her with urgency. Hermione is caressing the lean lines of his back, following his angles until her hands find his arms, taut and straining, and she wraps her palms around him, holding him in place for fear he might disappear or pull away. She is gripping him as sure as he is caging her.

Frantic is the next inevitable stage. Hermione feels her hips move, a rhythm built on instinct, and his own answer back. She whimpers, and he moans, quiet sounds humming into the dark.

His mouth leaves hers, and it makes her whine in disappointment until his tongue finds the hollow of her throat, fingers deftly unlooping the top two buttons of her blouse and pushing the fabric open. She responds with hands circling his neck, fingertips carding through and tugging at the short hair at his nape. He grunts in vague approval, continuing with his tongue on her clavicle, running a line across the bone and ending with a wet kiss on her shoulder. She lifts her hips again, pressing against him shamelessly.

"Fuck, Granger." His forehead drops to the curve of her neck, and she feels his breath, hot and coming fast, puff against her skin. Grabbing his head between her greedy hands, she pulls him up only to slam her lips to his once again, whimpering once more.

They continue, licking and sucking at one another, abandoning each others' mouths only briefly to explore necks and jaws before returning to this seemingly endless kiss. They might continue for hours, or perhaps it is much more brief. Hermione loses all sight of their circumstances, of the Room, of the phantoms of witches sleeping on the other side of a silk and wood screen.

Finally, when they slow down in tandem, seeming instinctually to agree they have reached a moment that requires words, Hermione pulls away and lays her head on the pillow, looking up at Draco with bright but lidded eyes. "Maybe we should try to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow… what with turning into a sheep and all that."

He chuckles, breathing hard and fringe falling in his face, ticking the tip of Hermione's nose. "And you. Turning into a duck, apparently."

Grinning, she reaches up and brushes the hair from his eyes. "See you in the morning then?"

With one last gentle kiss, Draco extracts himself from between her legs and settles beside her. "In the morning… Good night, Granger."

She turns on her side, settling in, and feels him shift just behind her. Without any pretense of sleep, he spoons into her back, arm slung over her waist, and Hermione scoots to meet him flush along his frame.

"Night, Draco." With a contented exhale, she has no problem finding sleep, the body of a handsome wizard fitted snugly with her own.

* * *

Draco is the first to wake, and he is grateful for it. It affords him the luxury of studying Granger's face in sleep, of caressing down the soft skin of her arm, of fingertips dancing across the swell of her breast, revealed subtly between the buttons he himself had undone.

A lesser man, i.e. a fucking stupid one, might have taken the opportunity to sneak away, but Draco has no intention of letting this chance slip by. He doesn't intend to let her regret it, either. No, what he wants is to explore this further, to find the potential he might have with Hermione Granger. And, as a Malfoy, he's rather accustomed to getting what he wants.

With careful movements, Draco brushes stray curls from her forehead, sweeping the strands behind the shell of her ear. Without considering the fallout, unwilling to entertain she will be anything but receptive, he bends over her and lays a gentle kiss on her lips. She stirs, but doesn't wake, so he does it again.

And again.

Until, eventually, she is slowly kissing him back, and he has woken her with a kiss.

"Morning, Granger," he mumbles, lips still touching and muffling his words.

She smiles against his lips and returns, "Good morning. Ready for your big performance?"

"As the sheep or the handsome adventurer?"

She pulls back to look at him and chuckles. "Well, handsome should come naturally for you."

He grins, preening at the compliment, but counters, "I don't know. I think I made a pretty convincing sheep."

That earns a heartier laugh and a surge of confidence that sends her leaning up and kissing him with purpose. Draco doesn't need any convincing to reciprocate, and soon they are reliving a slightly tamer version of the night before.

"Daughter! Oh, Daughter, are you awake, my darling blossom?!"

Draco groans in disappointment, laying his forehead against Granger's. "We're picking this up later," he grumbles, hardly realizing the expectation, the assumption, of the sentiment.

It's only in hindsight, and after her very welcome, "Merlin, yes," that he realizes what a victory it has been. She agreed! Holy fuck, he's going to get more, _taste_ more, of Hermione Granger. Something he's not really known he wanted and now feels a fool for almost missing his chance.

Draco thinks he needs to send Professor Jayne a fucking fruit basket or something.

"Be right there, Father!" Granger is shoving lightly at Draco's chest, extracting herself from his hold.

He watches as she buttons her top, and he mouths "pity" at her as the skin vanishes beneath the white cotton. The effect of which is to make her smile and look away. Which, by the way, if fucking endearing.

Once she is properly righted, Granger tosses the sheep wool at him, brow arched in challenge. This is so asinine… He puts on the damn pelt, knowing the advancement of the plot gets him that much closer to snogging Granger again.

"Ready?" she asks in a whisper, and Draco nods in turn, feeling anxious and eager to move this along.

She rounds the room divider, and Draco follows just behind.

"Ah, my most beautiful girl. I am afraid I have come to take away your pet, my dear. The merchant is waiting to collect him and continue on his journey. I trust he has proved a welcome distraction?"

Draco watches the witch and her cheeks suffuse with pink. He smirks in her direction. Distraction indeed…

"It was," she agrees, and looks through her lashes at Draco.

The King claps his hands and rubs them together. "Well then, shall we be off, Sir Lamb? Pip pip, no use in dallying."

Draco follows the King to the silver brick wall, watching as the segments shift into place. There had been magic words when he first arrived, a poorly construction excuse of a spell, nonsense words that surely have no meaning. He has taken care to remember them, knowing it is part of the story that he returns to claim his witch.

Oh, he's going to fucking claim her, alright. Draco feels giddy. He can't wait to get done with this assignment and return to Hogwarts. He's already planning out the broom cupboards, alcoves, and tapestries into which he can steal away with Hermione. He hopes her feelings on the matter won't change when faced with their real lives and is stubborn enough to pretend the possibility doesn't fucking exist, thanks.

Draco follows through the door, looking back once at Granger to find her biting her lip and looking after him. She looks disappointed to see him go. _Fucking mutual, witch…_

He says with his eyes that he will be back as quickly as this god-awful story allows. The bricks slip back into place behind him, her face framed in the center. He watches until he can no longer see her, and he is alone with a mad king in a dim corridor of stone.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione watches the bricks close, her eyes locked on Draco's as the wall separates them once again.

Has it really only been three days? Has so little time passed and yet everything has changed? She is still reeling from it. How has she evolved from distaste to such strong desire so quickly?

She shakes her head at herself, unsure and not really caring. All she knows is that she woke this morning, pinned between the strong arms of a wizard, and she rather liked it. Ron, of course, is going to absolutely have pixies over it, but doing things to please other people is not the top of Hermione's current priorities.

At this exact moment, her top priority is continuing where she left off with Draco in bed. She sincerely hopes he doesn't take his time in coming back.

"Princess?"

Hermione looks over to find the three ladies looking at her with pity. "Sweet princess," faux Padma says, "we can only imagine the sorrow you must feel. Surely, your love will return to you within a day. His love cannot be bound, nor his bravery tethered. He will come for you and claim you as his own."

It's fantasy drivel, and very bad scripting, but there is something about Draco claiming her that doesn't sound all that bad. Not even half bad. Sounds pretty bleeding great ,actually.

She smiles and thanks the girls for their concern, assuring them she has faith in her beaux. And she does, oddly enough. The strangest thing to come from this whole experience, is that Hermione is pretty sure she can rely on Malfoy for at least a small selection of tasks. He will return for her, just as the story says, and he will whisk her away (back to Hogwarts, of course), and then, if she has anything to say about it, he's going to claim the hell out of her.

Hermione does a little hop in place, excitement bubbling all the way to her toes, and begins fantasizing about the next time they will meet.

* * *

"What the fuck do you mean, 'three days'?!"

A reedy and obnoxious guard wearing the face of Theodore Nott looks down his nose at Draco, hand resting lovingly on the hilt of his sword. The tosser always did have a bit of an obsession with cock.

Not-Nott sneers at him and answers, "His Highness is not entertaining any attempts to find the Princess until after renovations are complete in the throne room. He will not grant you an audience until then. So, to recap, you'll have to wait three days." He grins, and Draco could punch the sod.

"And just what am I supposed to do until then?!" He really doesn't expect an answer. Truthfully, he is sort of shouting at the Room at large.

"Crawl back to whatever hovel you call home. Unless, you need a place to wait it out?" The lascivious look the other man gives Draco is offensively obvious.

With a great deal of dramatics, Draco turns on his heel and stomps away, hearing the guard snicker at his back as he retreats. Three more days in this pit of hell? When he parted ways with the peddler, promising emptily to find him once he was a proper prince, he made his way immediately back to the castle, giddy at the prospect of rescuing Granger and enjoying her, he expected, grateful performance. Now, he's stuck returning to Molly Weasley's grimy pub for half a wretched week. The prospect is nauseating.

Making his way down the dusty, rocky footpath (he refuses to acknowledge it as a road), he tries to think of the very pleasant inevitability of seeing Granger again. It seems strange, his excitement at seeing the witch. Had he become so invested in only three days? Is it an effect of the Room? The fairytale setting?

No, his mind is his own. He doesn't feel any different than usual, it is only his perspective on her that has changed. Maybe changed isn't even the right word. Broadened, perhaps. She's still a haughty little know-it-all, but it seems a bit endearing when he can merely tease her for it. She's still a Muggle-born, but that stopped meaning as much to him as it once did. It still means things. It says that her family will never be as involved in her life as his own; that she will constantly be learning about his world, things that he has known on instinct since birth. But why hate for that? Why begrudge her a different experience for the first eleven years of her life? Instead, he is starting to view that as an opportunity. He can share a world with her she's only barely tasted, and she, sponge of knowledge that she is, will lap it up with gratitude.

Sounds fucking fun, honestly.

Not to mention, _Merlin, _she's fit. Surprisingly so. And that kiss was almost skillful enough to make him jealous of the wizards who came before him…those who saw her value while he was blinded by misguided goals.

His feet ease their tense plodding as he approaches the pub/inn/pit-of-despair, stomping certainly not doing any good but only stirring the dirt onto his shoes. When he enters, the Weasley matriarch perks up in a rather disconcerting way.

"Good t'see you, love. A bit o' stew and some ale?"

Draco squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, taking a very deep breath, then nods and makes his way to the table where he met the peddler days ago.

Before long, a piping bowl of slop is sitting before him. What he wouldn't give for an apple. If he had known this was what awaited him, he might have smuggled a bit from the Princess' chambers. Sighing in resignation, Draco takes a very long pull from the mug, careful to drink awkwardly just above the handle where it is likely the cleanest, and tries to remember he isn't really here. Hogwarts is just outside an invisible door, the professor waiting to hear all about their adventure. The experience thus far, while inconvenient at the moment, still has been worth it. He thinks back to Granger arched beneath him, her thighs hugging his hips.

Molly Weasley coughs, catching his attention, blowing him a kiss from across the room.

He shudders. _Mostly_ worth it.

* * *

He hasn't come. Hermione can't believe he hasn't come. It's been two days, each one filled with the same inane chatter of her handmaidens, her father's visits, unsettling as they are as he subtly gropes her ladies, and the same tedious passage of time she had known before Draco arrived.

What on earth is keeping him? There is nothing in the fairytale of additional plights or challenges. Her self-confidence had slumped late into the previous day, wondering if he had regretted their hint of a tryst, but even that seems unlikely. Even if he did not want to pursue whatever it was they'd barely begun, surely he wants to leave the Room enough not to let that stop his return.

Then, she'd begun to worry. What if there is something else standing in his way? The fairytale in the book her room holds had been a synopsis at best. What if there is another, more in depth, grim/Grimm (if you'll pardon the pun) version where he has to chop off his own feet or something equally grotesque? She has to remind herself of their circumstances. Surely no actual harm could befall them in the Room.

"Princess, do not fret."

She looks up at Lavender, not at all liking the pity on her face. It's a look she imagines she might have given Lavender once upon a time. In a reality where Ron and Hermione had been less of a disaster, and Lavender had survived, she might have given her that same look: A woman who sees that another has been rejected.

"I'm not fretting," she bites out, conscious that she has been pacing a hole in the ornate carpet and flops down on a chair with a huff. Her arms cross over her chest, and she glances away from that maddening look.

Cho approaches, kneeling at Hermione's feet. "He will return, Highness. I've never seen such love reflected on a gentleman's face."

Hermione snorts. "You never see gentlemen, period. You live in a blasted prison."

Padma gasps. "Princess, you cannot mean that! You're father has built us a sanctuary, safe and free of the troubles of life."

She levels all three of them with a look, feeling cruel. "You are delusional, which is fitting since you are also an illusion."

They stare at her blankly, as she had assumed they would. Anything too far off-script seems not to resonate with them in any way.

The bricks across the room begin to shift, and Hermione stands, eager and hopeful. Her hope is dashed pretty spectacularly when, once again, it is only her letch of a father who ambles through the gap in the wall.

"And how are the fairest ladies in the kingdom on this fine evening?"

The three giggle and titter. Hermione gags.

He makes his way to the sofa and the maidens follow behind, falling into position draped over him. Like a slutty little blanket. Hermione hates it here. She hopes this doesn't put her off when she sees her father next.

"Father," she begins, trying very hard to ignore his hand resting on the swell of Cho's small breast, "have there been no suitors recently? It seems it has been some time since anyone attempted to find me. Maybe they've all given up, and you could just let me live in the palace with you?"

He laughs, that annoying, condescending laugh that makes her grind her teeth. "My precious jewel, they will never tire of searching for you! You are the most beautiful and valuable treasure in the kingdom."

Fuck, that's so misogynistic. Nothing but a toy to keep. She starts to say something, though she knows he won't really hear it, just to vent a little. Unfortunately, he goes on before she can really let loose.

"Of course there are suitors, pet. But the throne room is being redecorated, and I just cannot entertain them until it is complete. Why, just today, my guards had to turn away at least four young men. I can't be distracted by this nonsense while the carpets are being newly arranged."

She gapes at him. She's stuck here because of fucking _carpets_?!

Has Draco come then? Was he one of the men sent away? He must be livid. Probably holed up in that nasty pub with Molly Weasley making passes at him.

Alright, that's a _little_ funny. Maybe they will laugh about this later. Or, maybe Hermione will.

Somewhat relieved, she asks, "And when do you suppose the room will be finished?"

"Well, I had thought tomorrow, but I've been told there are delays. You know these artisans and smiths… always working on their own schedule. Seems it might be a bit longer."

That's disappointing, but surely it will be soon. "Perhaps the day after then?"

He's no longer listening, gazing at Lavender as she arranges the tendrils of hair on his forehead, and Padma gently massages his shoulder.

She turns with a huff and goes to her usual space, the bed hidden by a divider, and flops onto her stomach to have a bit of a pout. If she is to play the part of a head-strong teenage princess, she may as well accept the challenge. When he bids her a good evening, after some time with a fair amount of giggling from the other side of the room, she resolutely does not acknowledge him at all.

* * *

Draco had returned to the palace on the third day only to be told that the renovations were still underway, and no one was granted leave to see the King. He had grumped and protested, screaming at Theo to let him pass, only to be hauled away and thrown into the street like a beggar. It was mortifying, honestly.

On the fourth day, it was much of the same. Then the fifth, the sixth…After one full miserable week, Draco slouching away without the usual fanfare, he had made a decision. Obviously; the Room had tweaked the tale, so Draco decides he's done playing by the rules of the story. He finds a local shepherd and buys a lamb pelt with what paltry amount of coin his character has left, and makes his way to the castle.

It's the same as before. Draco is walking upright, completely normal, but with a virtual carcass on his back, the legs tied under his chin like a bonnet. So fucking stupid, but if this is what it takes…

He saunters pass Nott, making no attempt to enter through the gate, and circles the perimeter looking for another entrance. He finds it in the form of a low wall with ivy crawling up its face. Seeker reflexes in his pocket, he begins the task of scaling the greenery until he is hopping over the side and into the castle proper. There are other animals here, dogs mostly, a few rabbits, all domesticated it seems. No one, no guards, none of the ladies or lords milling about, give him any notice.

The path to Hermione secret chamber is hardly well guarded. The magic keeping her inside must be enough for the King, assuming no one would find her. And really, with those nonsense magic words, who the fuck would.

A side entrance by the kitchens, a few corridors and abandoned halls, and Draco finds himself underground once more. When he reaches the wall, brown on this side but he knows to be silver within, he promptly mutters, "Open, Sartara Martara of the earth," and the bricks begin to slide away. He feels agitated just having to say the ridiculous spell. What does that even mean?

Inside, nothing has changed. The handmaidens are lounging about, feeding grapes to one another, and Hermione is nowhere to be seen. Hiding, he would imagine, keeping to herself on the other side of the screen.

"I'm not feeling up to a visit, thanks." He hears her voice, and there is an annoyed edge in her tone. Draco looks at the ladies, noting they are surprised to see him. He tosses the carcass off with flourish and presses his finger to his lips, signaling for them to be quiet.

His week has been fucking awful. Meals disgusting, bedding infested, and company appalling, but his mood has just vastly improved. On the other side of the screen waits his witch, and how fun will it be to surprise her.

Feeling devilish and boyish and happier than he's been in days, he creeps around the room, shooting the ladies a wink. They giggle into their hands and shake their heads at his roguish behavior.

At the divider, he peers around, finding Granger laid prone, her arms folded over her chest and eyes tightly closed, pouting. As quietly as he can, he circles the bed until he is just beside her. She starts to move, and he takes the chance, pouncing atop her and stifling her scream with his lips on hers.

* * *

Hermione had heard the moving of the bricks and the giggling of her ladies, and decided to stay behind her screen and hide. She had no interest in playing nice with her fake father or any other aspect of this inane story. She thinks she has played along pretty well up until now, but the Room is taking liberties, and she very much doesn't bloody appreciate it.

She had ignored the shuffling and giggling as he entered the room, waiting for that sickening sweet, "Daughter?!" to come from beyond her sleeping area, but it never came. Squeezing her eyes closed, feigning sleep, was probably a childish response, but Hermione absolutely does not care. The Room can go hang.

So, when a set of warm lips had pressed against hers, the bed jostling simultaneously, Hermione's reaction had been understandable surprise. It did not take long, however, to understand that the story had not taken an incestuous turn, but that Draco, somehow, had crawled into her bed.

Now, Hermione surges into the kiss, relieved to see him. Surely this means their nightmare is nearly over? Is this their "Happily Ever After" moment?

The kiss is needy and hurried, Hermione's arms wrapping around his back, pulling him down on top of her. Draco hardly protests, settling in on his side, half loomed above her.

His mouth gentles, urgency melting into a slower, less desperate affair. The rush is turning into something sensual, and Hermione luxuriates in it. His lips slow even further, coaxing her into soft nips, tongue teasing rather than invading, until finally he stops and pulls just enough away to look at her.

"Hi," she exhales, barely a sound accompanying her breath.

His eyes crinkle with his answering grin. "Good to see you, witch."

Altogether too sincere, she admits the same. "You too. Did the King finally let you in?"

He scoffs at her, rolling his eyes in agitation. "Hardly. I've been asking nearly everyday for a week. Sometimes twice a day. Some prick that looks like Theo Nott keeps turning me away.

Hermione squints at him in question. "Then how did you make it back here?"

She's disappointed when he rolls away, but it's only for a moment. Draco reaches over the side of the bed and then rolls back over atop her, brandishing a clump of wool in his hand. She chuckles at him as soon as she realizes. "You came in as a sheep again?"

"I'm not spending one more night eating gruel and lying on straw when I could be right here having apples and sleeping in a soft bed."

"And is that all in your list of priorities?" she asks with a pointed raise of her brow.

"I had one more, much stronger motivation," he answers with a leer. Leaning back over her, he kisses her once again, one hand reaching up to lay possessively on her breast. He's barely touching her, palm laid softly on her peak, and she shivers with the instinct to push against him; to incite more.

"You don't see me eating or sleeping do you?" he questions. "My first priority was getting back to where we left off."

She whimpers, and she's not one whit ashamed. "Draco…"

"Did you miss me, Granger?" he whispers against her cheek, placing soft kisses in his wake.

She nods, eyes shut. "Yes." She drags the word through her lungs, hissing out her approval as he moves to nibble and lick at her jaw.

His hand no longer idle, fingertips drag along her skin, reaching inside where her blouse has gapped, deftly unbuttoning her top. When he tweaks her carefully, one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, she keens and scrambles to grab his shoulders.

Hermione pulls him back down, seeking his mouth, and moans into this kiss. He abandons her breast, which is disappointing, but she can't complain when instead his palms cup her cheeks, tilting her face upward as he consumes her. His tongue, no longer playful, is thrust roughly into her mouth, lips pressed against her so hard she thinks she may bruise. She really has missed him; she hadn't even been aware how much.

Somehow, they fail to notice the sliding of the bricks, but Hermione is brought back to herself with a loud clearing of a throat. They break apart, and Hermione looks up to find Padma standing just beside the room divider, smiling toward the other side of the room, but shooting glances from the corner of her eye.

"My lord, a pleasure to see you," she announces loudly to the room, dramatic and rehearsed. Hermione is quite grateful.

She meets Draco's wide eyes, and reaches blindly for the pelt. When she finds it with her searching hand, she thrusts it at him and mouths, "Put it on, quick," before virtually shoving him off the bed.

He glares at her as he ties the front legs around his neck, but makes no protest as to her instruction.

Hermione rights herself, buttoning her top and fluffing her curls into some semblance of order.

She glides around the screen, and greets her father who is surveying the room in his usual haughty way. "Father, how lovely to see you."

"My daughter, you seem in better spirits this evening. Have you enjoyed a pleasant day?"

She smiles, not even having to pretend. "Yes, today has turned out very well."

"Excellent!" He waggles his finger at her, a playful and chastising smile on his lips. "Don't think I didn't notice your sour mood yesterday, my dove. Despair not! I know just what will brighten your day ever further. As of this afternoon, I have begun entertaining young adventurers who would win your hand!"

"The fuck?!" Hermione hears Draco's venomous whisper, but luckily her father seems unaware.

She offers a smile, trying to appear grateful and placated. "That's wonderful. I do look forward to meeting whatever brave young man will finally find me."

"Your wait may not be long at all! I've already been approached! You will remember the kind and generous merchant who brought you the darling lamb…?"

Her smile is frozen on her face, breath held hostage in her lungs. _The fuck_, indeed.

"Well, it just so happens he will be the first to attempt. Come the morrow, he will be seeking you and your hand! Such a handsome fellow, was he not? Oh, what beautiful children you would make!"

"But, Father," she starts through clenched teeth and a grimace masquerading as a smile, "he has already visited me. Surely it would be unfair?"

Her father waves the thought away. "Oh, pish. He was blindfolded… and cotton was stuffed in his ears! Surely you cannot find fault when he was thus handicapped? Do not fret, my dearest, I would sooner keep you locked away your whole life than see you wed to someone unworthy! But a merchant with golden fleece? What a fine gentleman he must be!"

"Indeed," she says; all she can manage. She thinks Snape must have rubbed off on her, and suddenly feels a kinship with the distaste the man obviously lived mired within. Is everyone in this fairytale completely useless? "When will he be making his attempt?"

"At sundown, my love. Perhaps only one more day, waiting for your heart's desire! Oh, pet, I do envy the possibilities before you! Young love on the horizon!"

"And is he the only to answer your trial? Surely there are other young men who might be joining the attempt?"

"Perhaps," he says with a shrug. "He was the only one who arrived today, but I expect once word travels as to my acceptance, others will follow. Too bad for them you might already be wed!"

Hermione's vision tunnels into one black dot on the horizon, mind racing. This isn't how this is supposed to go! _What the fuck, Room?_!

Ourwardly, she is still smiling. "Well, it seems tomorrow might be quite exciting. I think I should retire."

He nods as if she's just put forth sage advice. "Clever as you are beautiful, precious one. I will not keep you."

He makes a stately bow to the three ladies who giggle and titter as always. "And to you, most ripe and rare flowers, until tomorrow."

He wriggles his brows, and Hermione thinks she might gag.

Once he has passed through the brick, Draco is barrelling back into the room. "What the ever loving fuck, Granger? What is going on with this asinine story? It wasn't bleeding stupid enough, the Room decided to make it even more fucked?"

She shakes her head, feeling a bit shell-shocked. "This can't be normal. Something has gone wrong… Must have." She snaps her head back toward him, pointing a finger at his chest and voice growing stronger. "You have to go! Draco, you have to go get an audience… tonight! Or, dear Merlin, this nonsense might tie me to Gilderoy Lockhart! What if it still won't let us out? If I'm going to be stuck here any longer, I'm at least going to be snogging you, not that lunatic!"

His smirk is slow, eyes dancing. "Well, well, making plans to keep me around, Granger?"

She stomps her foot, very much not appreciating his delight in her trauma. "Do try to focus please."

His smirk blows wider, the other side of his mouth tweaking up to match the first, until he is full on grinning like a loon. "Oh, I am focused. Focused quite soundly on the part where you're actively trying to reach a happy ending with me-"

With one very unladylike shove to his chest, Hermione urges, "Oh, just go on, would you? It's barely sundown. If you can get him to agree, you can find me as soon as first thing tomorrow. Surely the Room will let us go then."

He is still chuckling when he reaches for her, despite her half-hearted protests, and pulls her to his chest. "Careful, Granger. I'm starting to think you're getting attached. What if I just decide to keep you?"

All the jumbled thoughts seem to stop at once, like the inner workings of a timepiece, suddenly halted. Keep her? She thinks to deny it, considers quipping back. Part of her wants to turn the proverbial tables, accuse him of projecting his own issues and desires.

But she sees something behind the laughter in his grey eyes, and, though never one inclined to bet, would wager there is something hopeful lurking, cloaked in mirth.

So, she drops her gaze, fiddling with the button on his peasant's shirt. "Maybe that wouldn't be so terrible."

She glances up, finding him staring back. Fingertips trail her cheek until his palm is cupping her face, thumb brushing just beneath her eye. "I did miss you, you know."

"Not just the apples?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Not just the apples. Maybe I should just steal you away, hide you from the King for a little while."

Her brow furrows. "I appreciate the notion, but don't you want to get back to real life?"

"Remember when we talked about the Room, about time passing? If this is all happening in but a moment, Granger, we could enjoy a lot of time here. No consequences, just us." His lips have slowly descended as he talks, brushing hers as he finishes, but something about what he's said gives her pause.

With her palm gently pushing on his chest to keep his attention, she asks, "What if it's not? What if... " She pulls back further, thinking it out. "I mean, we know the fairytale is misbehaving, right? What if it's the whole thing: the Room, the assignment? What if there's a problem and we really are stuck in here?"

"You can't really think the professors would allow that?"

Hermione shrugs. "No one really understands the Room completely. Maybe they don't realize?"

With a defeated and long-suffering sigh, Draco presses his forehead against hers. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

She shakes her head, keeping their contact and feeling his fringe tickle at her cheeks. "Probably not."

"So, we won't be getting back to the snogging tonight, regardless if I stay?"

There is petulance in his tone, though it seems fond and almost amused as well. She smiles in response and agrees, "You're probably right on that account."

"So I might as well go find your letch of a king and bid for your hand in the morning?"

Hermione tilts her head and meets his gaze. "You do have to _win_ the princess, you know. That's how these stories go." She grins, cocking her head in playful challenge.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to break the rules." He surprises her with this kiss, hard and fast and biting off his last word so she can hardly even comprehend what he said. She is swept up, wrapping her arms around him, and squeaking in delight when his palms find her arse and lift her towards him. He moans into her mouth, and she feels him, hard and insistent, pressed against her stomach.

A small hand grabs her arm, and Hermione is yanked away only to be faced with three gaping little tarts. "Princess, you mustn't! You must be kept a maiden for your future prince, even if this young man were to be him."

Hermione looks back at Draco, finding him flushed and dark-eyed, panting. "I guess I should speak with your father."

She nods a bit dumbly and watches, still as stone, as he collects his pelt from her bedside and starts to make his way to the door. He looks back, flashing her a devastating grin. "Hopefully, I'll see you in the morning, pretty witch."

Tearing herself from Padma's hold, still settled on her arm, Hermione crosses the room and yanks Draco down to her height, her hand on the back of his neck, to kiss him once more. "In the morning," she whispers in agreement. "Then we will leave this nonsense behind and…."

She falters, momentarily losing her nerve. She looks up to see that same hopeful vulnerability in the depths of his eyes and takes a breath. "And maybe I'd like to take you to Hogsmeade. Do you have plans?"

He looks a bit struck but finally shakes his head. "No plans. I'm all yours, Granger."

She smiles and shoves him toward the brick wall. "Remember that. I'm holding you to it."

She would swear she hears him whistling as the bricks close behind his back.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco walks swiftly back through the corridors and onto the grounds, hardly mindful of the people he passes and with no inclination at stealth or to appear "natural". Some of the strolling lords give him a dark look, a couple of ladies glance after him oddly, but since he is a sheep, no one calls for the guards.

Once he is back to a low stone wall, barely populated, he hops over ("My _Lord_, Gerald, did you see the leap made by that little lamb?!") and finds a hidden place off the road to remove the pelt. Draco glances right and left before returning to the footpath, walking with purpose back to the gates.

He's getting back to that witch before she remembers she's not supposed to like him. He's had a taste, and, Merlin, but does he want more. Potter and Weasley are going to have his head on a pike, but he's pretty sure she might be worth it, if the sampling he's had is any indication.

And that's to say nothing of the fact that she's clever and humorous and playful to boot. He's replaying their banter, her smile, and those completely delicious snogs, when he spots Theodore fucking Nott leaned against the wall beside the entrance.

"You!"

Not-Nott looks up, that ever-present smirk on his face. Is that how Draco looks? He should be mindful. It's fucking irritating.

Draco stomps into his space and points a finger into the man's chest accusingly. "It has come to my attention that the King has entertained other adventurers even as you told me he would not be until at least next week!"

He drops his hand and crosses his arms over his chest, daring the guard to deny it.

"Did I?" Faux-Theodor's manicured fingers cup under his chin in thought. "My, my, I must have misspoke."

"Let. Me. In. You. Prick."

The guard looks down at him darkly, hand tightening on the hilt of the sword hung at his hip. Then suddenly a gasping breath flees his lungs, mouth widening into an absolute guffaw. "Man, you are so bloody serious! Isn't he such a complete tosser?"

Draco is taken back, looking from the proxy Theo to where his gaze is now landed; on the other guard that he completely ignored previously…

And, of course, it's fucking Potter.

"Oh, for the love of…"

Draco looks between the two laughing men, watching Theo dramatically wipe his eyes as if his laughter has produced tears. "Look, the King just opened his gates for visiting adventurers a few hours ago, alright? It's not like we have any ruddy idea what he's doing."

Draco sniffs, not at all liking the feeling that he's being laughed at.

"Just a bit of fun," the fake Potter offers unhelpfully. Draco hardly recognized him with the guard's helmet hiding his god awful hair and scar.

Feeling quite disgruntled, Draco asks, "So can I go in?"

"Sure, sure." Theo swings the gate inward, preceding Draco through the opening. He turns once inside and gestures to be followed. "Come on, then. I'll announce you." He's grinning and chuckling through it, and Draco vows to pop him in the jaw before he leaves this place.

Begrudging, Draco stalks through the gate and falls into step behind the guard, watching the same people who stared and tutted and cooed at him as a sheep sneer at him with distaste in his human form, presumably due to his low status. He tilts his head higher, knowing in reality he is better than any of them. Than all of them combined.

Not to mention, they aren't really people. That deflates him a bit. Maybe he is taking this just a bit seriously…

Theo stops abruptly once they reach the chamber Draco remembers he had entered with the peddler. Theo nods to the guards flanking this door; Neville Longbottom and Cedric Diggory nod back.

Draco feels a sharp elbow in his ribs and looks over to find Theo giving him a look, eyebrows raised. "Name?"

Name? Did his character have one? What-the fuck-ever.

"Draco Malfoy," he says proudly, looking down his nose at the lot of them.

"Draco Malf- What the hell kind of a name is that?"

The guards snicker and shake their heads. Longbottom tuts. "Not much of a good English name, is it."

"Right," Diggory offers. "Not like Neville or Theodore or George or something. You from some godforsaken foreign place?"

With a once over, looking disgusted, Longbottom postulates, "Bet he's a Norman."

They all sneer at that.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath and squeezing his eyes closed. "Can we just, please, get on with it?"

Nott shrugs and leads forward, the other two making a show of leaning away, lest Draco brush against them.

And his family _is_ French, thanks. These tossers can all go fuck themselves.

Inside the chamber, Theo stops and clears his scrawny throat. "Presenting," he belts out clear and strong, "the adventurer, Draco Malfoy!"

Draco looks up to find the king sitting on a high throne, looking abjectly bored. The woman to his left, presumably the Queen, is _not_ Hermione Granger's real life mother. Draco knows this because, instead, she is Narcissa Malfoy.

"Ah, come forward, young lad! Think you have the stuff to find my most precious gem, do you? I must warn you, another is likewise seeking her hand on the 'morrow, and he is a clever one indeed. A sorcerer, surely. He once gifted me a gilded lamb!"

Draco's mother is watching her husband speak, her lip curling. Even here, she is the epitome of judgment and haughty discontent. Draco misses his mother.

Noticing the room is staring at him, perhaps waiting for a response, Draco clears his throat and steps forward, taking pleasure in elbowing Theo subtly out of his way. "Your Highness" (because Draco swore he would never again call anyone his "Lord"), "I am confident I will be able to find your daughter with no trouble. I'm quite talented at finding missing things, you see."

The king frowns. "A pity, one so young… Are you certain, my boy? Would you forfeit your life at a chance for a princess you've not even known?"

Draco smiles a private smile. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to find her quite fetching, sire. All I ask is the chance."

The king sighs sadly and shakes his head. "Very well. You may also seek her after the breaking of the dawn-"

"Sire? If I may…" Draco licks his lips and steps forward, hoping the Room doesn't find him insolent and change the story to him losing his head. "I have travelled ever so far to find my… one true love…

That's appropriate for this type of story right? Lay it on thick…

"She is said to be of unmatched beauty, clever as any scholar and kind as… as… the autumn sun."

Narcissa softens her countenance. Draco thinks he must be doing well.

"I only ask the chance to find her, so that I might...err… worship her, as she so obviously deserves. Surely, Great King, you only wish a suitor for her that might… ahhh... That will value her as you do, a treasure to be protected and adored."

The room is silent, Draco internally hoping this is the sort of rot the story is looking for. Not that it's entirely put on. She _is_ pretty. And clever… and kind, come to think of it. She forgave him, didn't she? Not to mention, fit as fuck, but he doesn't think that will win any points with her father…

"You speak from the heart," the man finally says, seeming affected and sympathetic. "Who am I to deny you that which I have promised all who would seek? Very well."

He rises on the dais, stepping slowly down and glancing once back at his queen. She purses her lips at him and looks away.

"Come, then, young Malfoy. Let us seek your true love."

He gestures to the corridor to the west, the one Draco knows does not lead to the hidden paths and catacombs beneath the castle.

Turning east, he counters. "I am feeling east is the path I seek, sire. If I may?"

The King nods. "Of course. It is your quest, after all."

Confidently, Draco strides forward, opening an unassuming door and beginning the long trek into the bowels of the castle. The King trails behind, looking a little put out. For all his protesting that he hates to see the young adventurers meet their fate, he does not look happy at Draco's progress.

Though there are few stairs along the way, the semi-constant slope of the floor and dampening, cold air tells him they are relatively far underground. They wind through, silence resting between them, coiled and tense, when Draco finally comes upon a timeworn wall of stone that stretches across their path.

"Perhaps you have miscalculated," the King offers. He sounds entirely too gleeful at the notion since it would mean Draco's death. He even does a little hop in place, rising onto the balls of his feet. Tosser.

"It seems to me, a wall in the middle of a hallway is a little suspect. I would wager magic is afoot."

The King looks nervous then. It is, admittedly, a bit amusing to play it up for the script. Knowing he is about to win the day, his witch waiting on the other side of mere stone, is a fun prize. Making the King look like a fool is just a bonus.

"Oh, yes?" The man sneers at him. "And what are the words then? Shall I say something like 'shut shut shut'?"

Well, that's just stupid. How much of the scripting is part of the original story? Instead of commenting, Draco smirks and answers, "No, I do believe along the lines of 'Open, Sartara Martara of the earth'."

Draco watches the King's face fall, his mouth gaping, as he hears the stone start to slide away behind him. Feeling smug and just a teensy bit giddy, he gestures grandly to the opening behind him. "After you, Your Majesty."

The man glares as he trudges past.

* * *

Hermione is enjoying (alright, enjoying is a strong word for anything at this point, ready as she is to get back to Hogwarts) a bit of bread and fruit, when she hears the rasp of stone scraping against stone, usually indicative of her father's visit.

Today, however, she is expecting someone else, and rises eagerly to greet her guest.

The first thing she sees is Frank Granger stomping into the room, looking irritated. Honestly, she's hardly seen this version of her father's face look anything beyond amused or bemused since this whole thing started. She thinks to take that as good news, and is rewarded for that faith when Malfoy steps through behind him, a smirk on his lips.

She doesn't have a chance to speak before the King pouts out. "Yes, so you've found the Princess. Bully for you." A nasty little grin stretches across his face when he adds, "But, now, I will turn her and her maidens into ducks, and you will have to guess which is my daughter. Only then will you have her to wife."

It's a dirty trick, honestly, but they all knew it was coming. Hermione glances at her maidens who give her encouraging nods. Right, clean her feathers when she transforms. She hopes Draco remembers that part of the fairytale.

With a lazy wave of her father's hand, muttering under his breath, a soft blanket of feathers drifts from thin air and lands upon her shoulders and head. She looks to find her three attendants likewise dusted with down.

So her magic transformation is to be as ridiculous as Draco's, is it? She looks up to find him snickering at her expense.

Yes, well, it might be ridiculous, but she has a part to play. But how is one to clean feathers when she doesn't actually have wings? Or a beak? Can't he just point her out without the ruse since he can obviously see her face?

He raises his eyebrows in challenge, answering her silent plea.

So he wants a game, does he? Feeling playful and slightly wicked, Hermione lifts her arm until her fingers, slightly splayed, obscure her mouth from his view. Locking eyes with the wizard, his look turning to one of question, she slides the tip of her middle finger deep into her mouth, then slowly drags it back out along her tongue. Draco gulps as it emerges and she lightly bites the tip.

Allowing her lip to quirk on one side into a bit of a smile, she repeats the motion, this time closing her lips around the digit and hollowing her cheek as she makes a show of sucking at the length of it, eyes hooded as she does. When she finally removes the tip once more, she full on smirks at him as she runs the now wet skin from her bottom lip, down her chin and neck, and finally lets it rest at the top of her cleavage for show.

She watches as his entire frame shudders subtly, a breath stuttering out of his lungs. "The Princess," he starts, but his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat. "The Princess is that one." He points in Hermione's direction, watching her intently with just a touch of wonder. "The duck who… _cleans_ herself."

Hermione giggles at the phrase. That's one way to put it.

For a moment, no one speaks. The maidens, the King; everyone is silent and waiting for a cue. Finally, her father nods and says very quietly, "You've found her, lad. My precious love." He waves his hand once again, and a light breeze carries the feathers away in a swirl of white.

The first to speak is Padma, who approaches Hermione and throws her arms around her shoulders. "Oh, sweet princess, your love has found you. May you live a thousand blessed years at his side."

The other two embrace her as well, genuine in their elation for her, but a bit sorrowful at her departure.

Her father is next, his hold almost bruising as he whispers to her, "My most treasured dove, I know he will be a worthy match. May your days be bright with his love, and know that you will always be held in my heart above all else."

Well, that's sweet, but the man kept her prisoner and boned her servants, so it's hard to be overly emotional about this goodbye. She hugs him back as sincerely as she can then steps back and eyes Draco over his shoulder.

"Princess," he says, low and serious in a way that makes her toes curl. She started the game, of course, but it seems he's ready to pick up the gauntlet. Hermione has a free period after Muggle Studies… maybe they can spend a little time being… acquainted… in the real world once they are back.

She steps into his space and looks up at him through her lashes. "Some fresh air, young adventurer?"

He grins and offers his arm. She slips hers through without hesitation and follows as he turns to the corridor.

They've barely made it out of the room, the stone starting to slide together behind them, when he pushes her rather forcefully toward the wall and slants his mouth over hers, his hand cradling the back of her head.

It's a thoughtful gesture, considering his otherwise rough demeanor, and makes her kiss him back hard and desperate, whimpering against his mouth and clinging to his neck.

Instinct dictates she lift one leg to snake around his calf. Draco moans when she runs her foot enticingly up the back of his leg, teasing his resolve, until his palm connects with the back of her thigh, hiking her leg more snugly around him. Hermione thinks she could climb him like a tree and grinds her core against him. She swallows the groans of approval, encouraged to continue; to do more.

Her hand has just started to descend down his chest, trailing her fingertip against the hard lines of his frame, when a very loud clearing of a throat brings her up short.

"Hermione?"

She had expected her faux-father. Maybe one of the girls. What she did not anticipate was the voice of her dearest friend, sounding an odd mix of surprised, irritated, and relieved.

Her leg drops and she looks up at Draco only to find him staring over her shoulder, mouth gaped. Hermione glances back over her shoulder and finds that the corridor, the wall to her hidden prison, the castle interior, is all gone. The room she is in is merely a black void, like standing in shadows. Beyond the threshold, the stone halls of Hogwarts await her, Harry Potter standing in the door frame, and a rather amused looking Theo Nott hanging back behind him.

"Oh," she intones, casually as she can, "we're back."

Hermione states the obvious then turns fully toward the corridor. She starts to take a step, then feels her hand enveloped gently, Draco's fingers wrapping around hers. She looks at him in question to find his face passive, and she knows the gesture cost him a lot. With a soft half smile, Hermione threads her fingers through his, pressing their palms firmly together. His mask, that expression of indifference, melts slightly away, and he presents her with one of his wicked little grins.

It's infectious, and she bites her lip before smiling back. "Come on, then. I'm starving."

Pulling him behind her, they walk out into the corridor and stand in front of their two housemates. The door to the Room, as soon as Draco's heel is past the frame, slams closed and melds into the wall.

"Alright, Hermione?"

She nods. "It wasn't quite the adventure I'd hoped. I imagine yours was much more fun. Which one of you was the giant?"

Harry and Theo exchange a look, Theo smirking and Harry blushing. "Erm… neither. Theo was Jack, and I was… a less… more of a _side_… You know, it's not important really. Not one of the main players-"

"He was the harp," Theo throws in, laughing and shaking his head. "The bloody golden harp."

"It was ridiculous," Harry offers, seeming to pout a bit.

"It was adorable," Theo corrects, and Hermione is thrown by the choice of word. Not as much, however, as she is by Harry's deepening blush.

"I wasn't even a proper gold harp!" Harry throws up his hands in aggravation. "Oh, they all _said_ I was gold. The giant kept saying how important his _gold_ harp was, asking me to sing, but I just had like… glitter in my hair, and my face was yellow…"

Hermione laughs then promptly slams her palm over her mouth at the look of ire on Harry's face. It does sound a bit adorable, but she doesn't dare say so.

"Who was the giant?" Draco, who has been quite up to this point, is looking at Theo, an open expression of curiosity on his face.

Nott leans forward like he's about to impart the secrets of the universe. "So, you'd think it would be like Hagrid or that half brother of his, right?" Draco nods, sharing in the conspiracy.

Hesitating, like he's building interest, Nott finally continues. "It was Flitwick. Like this huge version with a giant head and beard the size of a Christmas tree. And he wore these striped socks that he'd fling around everywhere. I used one from his wash for sleeping."

He glances over at Harry and finishes with a bit of dramatics, "And, occasionally, _not_ sleeping."

Hermione gapes at Harry who only rubs the back of his neck and resolutely looks at the corners of the ceiling, cheeks red as the Hogwarts Express.

Before anyone can respond, however, Hermione glances around and interrupts the banter. "Wait, where's everyone else?"

The other three turn their heads and also look puzzled. "Surely the Professor would have waited, even if the others had finished their stories."

Nott is the first to move, sauntering down the corridor, unhurried but with purpose. "Well, then, we'll just have to find her. I expect top marks for his. I even let the harp seduce me into rescuing him."

Harry meets Hermione's eyes. She starts to say something. Honestly, she's surprised but also incredibly amused by his embarrassment. But then he looks at Draco and gives her a lifted brow full of significance. Understanding passes between them like a shared breath, then Harry turns on his heel and follows after Nott.

Hands still clasped, Draco guides her along, throwing her a wink over his shoulder as he leads the way.

* * *

Nott and Potter shagging in a giant's cave is mildly amusing, but Draco is far more interested in the fact that Hermione Granger is holding tightly to his hand, knowing full well they are going to be seen by their peers at any moment. He glances at her often as they walk, trying to both shake the jarring sensation of being with her like this in this setting, and also luxuriating in the feeling of something new: a beginning.

The castle is quiet, no other students in their path, as they make their way to the Muggle Studies classroom. They anticipate a successful audience with their instructor, complete with top marks for finishing a very unorthodox lesson.

Draco has certainly not forgotten his feeling of gratitude either. The woman is going to be receiving a fruit basket the size of a fucking house come December; apples as far as the eye can see.

At her door, they all pause. She's already teaching another classes. Sixth year Claws and Puffs by the look of it. Is that always the next group after the eighth years? Draco had been sure it was second year Snakes and Lions…

As soon as she looks up, the wand in her hand clatters to the floor. Students whip their heads around to see what has caught her attention, then immediately start the mutterings and whisperings of excited, gossip-fueled children.

"Miss Granger, Mister Nott…? Where did you four come from?!"

Exchanging a look between them, Hermione speaks first. "We apologize if we are a bit late. Perhaps our fairytales ran a little longer than most? Was there… We won't lose points for that, will we?" She looks pale... Ashen. Poor witch. Draco smiles at her fondly, charmed by her concern over points when everyone knows she's the top student by a mile.

"I… Miss Granger, you all have _just _come from the Room?!"

"We hardly dawdled, Professor," Theo chimes in, looking a bit indignant.

"Right," Harry adds, supporting the claim. "We came straight here. Pretty much right away."

He blushes as he says it. Draco thinks he's protesting a bit much, and secretly wonders if the two of them had been snogging like mad just before they caught him and Hermione doing the same.

Speaking of, if everyone could move this along, Draco is quite looking forward to backing her into an alcove, or sneaking into a broom closet, or, hell, just taking her in the middle of the Great bloody Hall for all he cares. He's not picky, and he doesn't care who knows it. He can imagine slamming her against the wall just outside this classroom and hiking her leg back round him as they had been moments ago before being so very rudely interrupted. He would grind against her, and she would moan and whimper into his mouth. All those pretty little sounds that shoot straight to his groin and drive him forward. His hands have yet to explore all she has to offer, and he would focus there next, touching and kneading and grazing over all her most sensitive spots, Granger begging all the while for more, more, more...

"-over two weeks!"

He snaps from his reverie, catching the gist of conversation and eyes going wide at the current topic.

"We've been gone for… oh, Merlin, everyone must be so worried!"

Draco looks at his witch, her face full of disappointment and concern. So sweet of her to think of others. He squeezes her hand to show his admiration.

"Well, they weren't exactly unconcerned, Miss Granger," their professor comments, looking a bit harried. She glances this way and that before looking back into her classroom.

"Jeffries!" A young wizard with a Prefect badge on his chest looks up with attention. "You're in charge until I get back or the hour is up. Continue work on your essays. I want twelve inches on the "microwave", benefits and drawbacks, by tomorrow."

With that, she sweeps from the room, closing the door behind her. "Come along then. McGonagall will be pleased you've returned. She was none too happy I lost her favorite students."

Draco scoffs a bit, knowing he's not included in that estimation. No one counters it, but Hermione does stroke her thumb across his hand. Honestly, he's not that upset about it, but he accepts the affection greedily, flashing her a smile.

The group of five marches its way to the office currently occupied by the Headmistress, waiting only momentarily for the gargoyle to shift aside. On the other side of the door, McGonagall stands from behind her desk, gaping at them.

Her mouth clicks shut, and she straightens, adopting her typical, unaffected demeanor. "Professor Jayne, it appears your wayward ducklings have found their way home."

"It does," the woman agrees. "I've brought them straight here to give an account, but they say they were just released from the Room."

McGonagall eyes them, and Draco has that feeling he usually does when the woman looks down her nose at him. Like she's judging him for wrong-doing. Which is rubbish by the way, since he's the victim here.

He lifts his chin with a bit of the old Malfoy pride.

"Miss Granger, would you like to recount your time in the Room of Requirement?"

Hermione looks a bit nervous, but steps forward toward the Headmistress. Refusing to release her hand, Draco follows. "We have been living in the fairytale as assigned to us. In my particular story, I had to wait for Draco to rescue me from a hidden room, but the king wouldn't let him for many days. As soon as he was able to secure my release, the room disappeared from around us and the door opened."

McGonagall nods, then looks to Theo. "And you two?"

Theo grins. "Well, I was a handsome adventurer, but with a very poor and difficult mother…"

He looks over at Draco and throws in, "Who happened to be Pansy's mum, by the way. Every bit the harpy she is in real life."

They snicker together.

"Anyway," he continues back toward the pursed lips of their Headmistress, "I was to sell a cow, but then George Weasley turned up and offered me some charmed beans!" Theo's voice is growing steadily more dramatic, caught up in his little performance. "How could I say 'no' to that, honestly? Primrose Parkinson was none to happy, let me tell you. You could not _imagine_ how she railed and carried on! Sent me to sleep without any dinner and everything. Completely uncivilized. _Well._ The _next day_, a _huge_ beanstalk had grown-"

"I am quite familiar with Jack and the beanstalk, Mister Nott. Was there any reason the story took you particularly long to get through? Like Miss Granger's king stalling their departure?"

Theo glances at Harry. "Well, there was this harp you see, stuck with the giant atop the stalk. I took it upon myself to become not only an adventurer, but a _rescuer_." He flashes a gallant grin that makes Draco roll his eyes.

There is a quiet that falls across the room like a shroud, all parties just looking at each other in anticipation. Finally, McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose, then speaks.

"Twenty points to Slytherin and Gryffindor for perseverance and camaraderie in unique circumstances. You will earn full marks for any assignments missed."

She turns, then, to Professor Jayne. "And we will have no more use of the Room in Muggle Studies. Or indeed, any class situation. I dare say Miss Ravenclaw's humour from beyond the grave has always eluded me, and I've no time for these sort of shenanigans."

Draco is a bit stunned and has trouble keeping his tongue. "Wait, so, this was what? Some sort of… prank, and we were the joke?"

She looks down her nose at him, over her frames. "Indeed."

"That ancient _bitch_," he breathes out, and is surprised when the Headmistress chuckles at him.

"I have a long history of butting heads with the woman in subtle ways. Sometimes I think her aspects of the castle focus against my top students. Just like a Ravenclaw to need to feel superior to the best around her."

There is no question of his own inclusion in the statement, and he looks away both honoured and shamed.

McGonagall claps her hands together, the conversation seeming to have reached its end. "Now then, I trust you are well enough? You seem fed and healthy. Dinner will be served in the Great Hall in about an hour. Until then, the day is yours to alert any of your friends as to your well-being. Welcome home."

Draco turns in a daze and follows the others from the room, glancing back one last time to find the Headmistress and their Professor grinning after them.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione looks at Harry, wondering what exactly to do next. Unsure herself what to say, she's fortunate that he speaks first.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he's looking at his fellow Gryffindor while sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye. "I suppose I'll head up the tower and let Ron and everyone know we're alright."

She nods at him, glad he is willing to make that trip. Hermione is distracted by a different relationship at the moment. She would much rather stay and figure out what happens with Draco from here than play 20 questions with Ron about the food they ate or the endowment of the story wenches.

Hey, she's known him for almost a decade. It can't be said she doesn't know what makes the man tick.

"Excellent." Nott's eyes are gleaming, and he is rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "Then you can come with me down to the dungeons. I'm sure they are in a right state, wondering after my health."

"Err…" Harry seems to have short-circuited. "You're coming up with me?"

Accepting no argument, Nott links his arm through Harry's and starts to lead him away. "Of course! Don't you want to introduce me to your friends? Plus…" He adds in a stage whisper, looking back over his shoulder at Draco, "...I think these two might like a little alone time, if you catch my meaning."

Harry looks back as well, grimacing a little, and Hermione waggles her fingertips at him, slightly embarrassed, but mostly quite thrilled to have Draco alone.

Once they are out of sight, she looks at her companion to find him grinning down at her. "Well then," he begins, offering his own arm for her to take. She does, slipping her elbow around the crook of his and laying her hand on his arm. "I believe you promised me Hogsmeade, but it seems it might be a bit close to dinner for that. I would settle, perhaps, for you joining me at the Slytherin table this evening? It looks like we might even have another lion in the pit from now on." He tips his head a bit closer, as if to impart a secret. "Theo, you'd never know it, but he's quite tenacious when he sets his mind to something. Looks all weedy and unassuming, but that fuck lays claim and holds tight. Not unlike me, come to think of it…"

He's droning a bit. It's cute, but Hermione has one goal at the moment, and it's not to wax philosophic about Theodore Nott, even if he is currently having relations with her best friend. Draco is still mid sentence when she finds what she is looking for: an alcove off the main corridor with a heavy tapestry hiding the small stone enclosure behind.

She shoves him through the weaving, and, with an 'oof', his back connects with the wall.

"Talking later," she says, bossy as you please, and has no regrets about that. With a quick flick of her wand, she silences the space around them then drops her wand to the stone.

Hermione steps up onto her toes, nose to nose with a rather shocked Draco. His grey eyes are drinking her in. Not breaking the gaze, she pillows his bottom lip with her own then flicks her tongue lightly against it.

He's so passive, it's concerning. Leaning in again, she applies more pressure with her lips, licking along the seam of his. Draco isn't precisely unresponsive, but it's not the passionate collision she had expected, hoped for. It's nothing like she'd lain awake imagining either. Disappointed, she pulls back and tilts her face to look at his.

"Do you not….? Should I stop?"

He shakes his head, but she isn't quite sure what he's answering. With deliberate movement, he turns them so that Hermione has her back to the wall. "Are you sure?"

Well, that's the most ridiculous question she's ever heard. She practically threw herself at the man! A bit numb, unsure, she nods.

Draco leans in closer, eyes searching hers. "I need to hear you say it. Is this what you want? This is the real world now, Granger. No forgetting what happens here. No pretending it wasn't real."

Her lips feel dry, so she wets them slowly. Draco tracks the motion, his hand flexing at her hip, and she is no longer concerned he is uninterested. Nervous, but definitely not uninterested.

"It's already real, Draco." She lifts a hand to his face, brushing her fingertips down the bone of his jaw. "This is what I want."

"Oh, thank fuck." He kisses her so hard this time she feels pressed into the stone wall, his hands digging into her, looking for purchase. He grips her hip and her neck and slides his hand from her waist up to her breast, cupping it then running his palm over the hardened tip. She whimpers and he groans; they sigh into each other's mouth. Hermione had started as the aggressor, then relaxed under his touch, enjoying whatever friction he seeks.

Eventually, that's not enough anymore, and she pushes him slightly away so she can shimmy her knickers down her legs and toss her robes from her shoulders.

He doesn't give her more time than that. As soon as she is down to her skirt and oxford, he growls and moves back in. Hands frantic, they are both hurried now, unlooping buttons and reaching over one another's busy hands.

Hermione makes first contact with intimate skin, pulling his shirt from where it's tucked in and grazing the tops of his hip bones in the process. She moves to his trousers just as he pushes the sleeves from her shoulders. He reaches behind her to find the clasp, the last barrier, stopping her from being nearly nude, and unhooks it deftly.

That done, he slows, looking back at her face before pulling the straps from her shoulders. He watches with reverence as he reveals her, peeling the skin-toned satin and lace down, and sucks in a harsh, affected breath when he finally drops the undergarment to the floor. "Fuck, Granger…" Anything else he might have said or she might have replied is silenced when he leans in to take first one then the other nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking and breath hot and wet.

She holds his head, fingers threading into his hair, and lets the wall do the work of holding her up.

When his hand snakes beneath her skirt, she squeals in delighted surprise. So wrapped up in what his beautiful mouth was doing, she had nearly forgotten all the other things they could do. Feeling his hand cup her, then one finger slide along her slit, she's jarred into action and reaches for his erection, straining against his half-undone trousers. Her hand massages his length before she finds the fabric in her way and yanks it down hard to his knees, cock springing free.

Her mind starts reeling. What next…? She could transfigure their cloaks into bedding so she could ride him on the floor. Or perhaps he'd prefer to lay her down, bend her knees back and pound into her. So many choices, and she's lamenting not thinking this through. Perhaps they should have waited. Tonight, after dinner, they could have had more time, found more options.

Getting stuck in her own head, over thinking, Hermione knows is one of her… personality quirks. Luckily for her, it's not one of the traits Draco shares.

Without a word, he turns her to face the wall and presses down on her back. "Lean into the wall, Granger. I'm going to fuck you now."

Right. That's an option as well.

She complies eagerly, feeling anticipation, giddy and warm. He lifts her skirt from her bum, the last scrap of fabric on her body, and traces the tip of his cock down the center of her lips. A shiver runs her spine and she whispers against the stone, "Oh, Gods, yes."

"Wish you could see this," he laments. "What a fucking pretty sight you make." He feeds his length into her slowly after that until he is fitted snugly within her, the fronts of his thighs pressed against the backs of hers. She hears his breathing, raspy and affected, as he pets one palm down her spine.

It's sweet torture, his slow and careful movements. He withdraws, then slides back in, repeating the motion, languid and infuriating. He's savoring, she's sure, reverent, and Hermione remembers he's not actually been with anyone in this way.

Just when she thinks she will have to beg, or throw him to the ground and mount him, he snaps his hips faster and increases his pace, finding a more confident rhythm. She wants him to know she approves, so she praises, "Yes, oh fuck, yes, just like that."

His hand reaches beneath her, searching, until he has placed the rough pad of one finger against her clit, and she keens. This part, he must have done before; he's too bloody good.

She hadn't thought it could get any better, hadn't expected to be fucked so thoroughly, but with the pace he has set, perfect, thoughtfully even and steady, and the additional stimulation, Hermione feels herself begin to build toward completion. She is shocked by it, almost never able to come during the act, but here we are. Praise and pleas begin to cascade from her mouth, begging him to keep going, don't stop, please, _please_ don't stop, just like that, please…

"Fucking Gods…" he sounds awed, overwhelmed, and it spurs her forward until her orgasm crashes over her in waves, making her legs shake and her body shudder as she cries out. He follows almost immediately, like something out of a story, erotica come to life, then pulls her upper body up flush with his.

Draco's mouth searches for hers, turning her head with his hand to look over her shoulder and kisses her hard; still connected, cock still throbbing.

His arms wrap around her, and he pulls his lips away from hers in favor of breathing hard onto the back of her neck, his forehead resting against her curls. "Merlin, Granger, you're a fucking miracle."

She grips his arms, holding him tight around her, and chuckles a little at the reverence in his tone. "I've never…" she tries, almost unable to catch her breath. "That was the best… I can't…"

He chuckles in turn, and then they just stand a moment longer, breathing and holding each other tight. Finally, he pulls away and she reaches for her wand at his feet, casting a quick charm to clean them up as Draco lifts the trousers from where they have pooled at his feet.

"I think I'd like to change before dinner," she finally says, feeling her heart slow back down from a race to more of a trot. "Meet you in the Great Hall?"

She doesn't expect awkwardness between them, but is somehow still relieved when he steps into her space and runs his hands up her arms. "I'll meet you there," he says softly, then places a gentle kiss to her lips.

Of course she doesn't let him get away with gentle, and has him panting and trying to devour her within moments. When he pulls back this time, he steps away and gives her an amused and adoring smile. "I'll need a bit more time than that before another round, Princess."

Hermione waves away the comment with a grin and concedes, "Fine, yes. If you must. I'll see you soon."

_Always leave them wanting more_, she sneaks away from his grasp and into the corridor, careful to glance both directions before taking off to Gryffindor, humming slightly to herself.

* * *

Draco arrives in the Hall before most of the other students and takes his usual seat at the far side of the Slytherin table. He wonders if she will know where to look for him. Has she noticed him before?

He had certainly noticed her. More perhaps than he had admitted to himself. He knows she always sits facing the Ravenclaw table and relatively close to the dais. Presumably, she wants to be sure to hear any announcement made by their professors. He has a pretty clear view of her seat from his own on most days. Typically, Potter sits across from her, and Weasley right beside. He wonders if that should bother him now, her former flame sharing her space so closely. It could, perhaps, but he's not terribly bothered by anything right now. Hermione had made her intentions pretty clear when she shoved him from the corridor and into a hidden corner of the castle. She certainly doesn't seem the type to use him to get off, so any fear that she would return to Hogwarts and want to distance herself from whatever it was they had become had dissipated rather quickly.

The table slowly fills around him, Daphne taking up the seat across from him, and some fifth year he doesn't know on his left. He makes idle chatter with Daphne until she becomes distracted by the girl to her left and something about a Witch Weekly article just printed.

Not hide nor hair of Theo or Potter yet. Draco wonders if they found an alcove of their own.

Gryffindor, likewise, starts to populate, Weasley being one of the first. A bit of anticipation starts to fester into something a bit more like fear: Hermione is never this late.

Millie enters and makes a beeline to Draco's side. "Are you alright?" She slips into the seat beside him and looks him over with concern. "I can't believe you were trapped so long! We were all worried."

He shrugs. "It wasn't so terrible, really. Except the food," he throws in as an afterthought. "I could do without peasant swill and shepherd's pie for a long time." She giggles at him and starts to say something, when a commotion starts just to his left at the end of the Slytherin table.

"... think you're going, Muggle? No room here for lions or filthy Mudbloods."

It's said in a harsh whisper, and Draco is sure no professor heard it… but he did. He looks up to find Hermione glaring at a sixth year, distant relation to the Carrows. He also finds that the meat of the comment is true, and the benches on Draco's end of the table have filled up. When he meets her gaze, she looks angry, but also a bit sad.

He stands, ready to accept whatever punishment is handed down when he feeds the little prick his own intestines. No one insults his witch.

A hand lays firmly on his shoulder, and he thinks to shrug it off, expecting it to be someone telling him it's not worth it. Or, worse yet, a warning to leave the other Slytherin alone. But when he turns, it's Ron Weasley with an easy grin on his face.

"Oi, Malfoy, you moving over? Because if you want to sit with 'Mione, I'll swap you."

Draco watches as the redhead looks down and finds Millie blushing up at him.

Huh.

He nods, removing himself and letting the gangly wizard take his spot. Immediately, Millie shifts her body into him, and he reaches to snag a bite from her plate. Completely familiar and intimate… it seems Draco missed a few things.

In the meantime, Hermione is about to get herself detention.

"...disgusting, ill-bred, close-minded-"

"My love?"

She stops her diatribe and looks at him.

"Let's pop over to Gryffindor today. Theo can join us if he can climb off Potter long enough to eat." He flashes her a grin and absorbs the sound of absolute stillness all around them, the Hogwarts rumor mill gearing up for a massive gossip influx.

She smiles at him, and it lights the room. Gods, she's so pretty.

"Right. I'd love that."

Draco takes her hand and leads her over, finding the spot where Granger and her friends usually resides, and pulls her down beside him. Across the room, a glass is raised in his direction. Draco picks up the pumpkin juice in front of him and toasts Weasley back.

"There you two are."

He looks up, and Theo has just plopped down across from him, bumping hips with Patil. "Apologies, beautiful." She titters and looks away. Maybe the Room had her personality down a bit better than he'd thought. He hopes that doesn't say anything for Hermione's father.

Potter is next, sitting down more gently as not to jostle the person to his left.

Theo turns to question Draco. "I thought we were sitting in the snake pit?"

Draco shrugs. "Weasley offered himself as tribute when that little shit, Selwyn, thought to be clever about Hermione's heritage." He feels the witch reach for his hand beneath the table and squeeze. Her face is happy and affectionate, so he leans in to nuzzle her cheek and land a soft kiss there. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Theo grins and looks at his… lover? They certainly seem more than a passing fancy. "That cloak you told me about. Think we might use that to extract a little revenge for your friend's honor?"

The wicked smile Harry returns tells Draco he won't need to lift a finger in Hermione's defense if he doesn't want to, but, matter of fact, he does.

"Count me in," he offers.

Hermione rolls her eyes at the lot of them. "Please don't get yourselves expelled on my account. I've already cast a silent hex on his dinner."

On cue, the boy pushes his plate off the table and flees the room, looking ill.

Draco, Theo, and Potter all turn her way, watching as she dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, innocent and unassuming.

Potter smiles and asks, "Leeches?"

She grins, and Draco is pretty certain he's officially in love.


End file.
